


Spark

by athena_crikey



Series: Fear and Favour [3]
Category: Endeavour, Inspector Morse (TV)
Genre: AU, Angst, Depression, F/M, Fantasy AU, Forced, Internalised Homophobia, M/M, Mpreg, Self-Harm, dub-con, generally not a happy time, h/c
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-09
Updated: 2016-03-04
Packaged: 2018-05-19 06:13:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 32,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5956660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/athena_crikey/pseuds/athena_crikey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You may complete the rite which brings all others to our door. Or one of you may forfeit his life – he who steps first from the circle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. PROLOGUE

**Author's Note:**

> I have very little to say for myself here. This is one big depressing angst-fest, and I don't know what I'm doing writing it. Something of an AU of an AU; unofficial sequel to Phoenix.

The streets of Oxford were eerily empty, even for a cold January day. Few cars on the road, few people on the pavement. Colleges had closed their doors, employers their offices. The only ones on the street were those who needed to be there, among them the police.

It had been over a century since Djinn Fever and swept through Oxford. The city, usually kept safe by its intricate web of seals and sigils, had forgotten how to deal with menaces such as this. The hospitals were overwhelmed with patients, many of them restrained on Ward 8, the Radcliffe’s best-sealed ward. The fever struck its strongest blows against the touched, delirious fits lasting days on days, sometimes in the end claiming lives.

Morse was on the streets today, filling a role he hadn’t taken on since he’d left uniform: straight-out peacekeeping. With so many shops closed and so much of the populace hiding behind latched doors, the threat of looting and vandalism was high.

Thursday had tried to send him home that morning when he had showed up at the inspector’s door, but Morse had refused. In a week where every officer was working double shifts, his disappearance would be not only noticed, but commented on; that wasn’t something he could afford.

He was patrolling near the Bodleian Library when he heard the call for assistance. A PC had found a student in the courtyard between the Bodleian and the Sheldonian, half double against the wall, face pale and eyes shadowed. There was a sheen of sweat on his skin, and under his robes Morse could see his shirt damp with it.

“What’s your name?” asked Morse, watching as the PC helped him.

“I’m fine,” protested the student, shying away. “I’m fine.”

Morse glanced at the PC. “I’ve got the car on the other side of the Sheldonian.” The man nodded, took the student’s elbow, and began helping him to the car. Halfway there the man swooned, legs giving out under him. Morse stepped hurriedly forward, catching his other arm. Between the two of them, they carried him to the car, Morse unlocking and opening the door and helping the PC put him into the back seat.

“I’ve got it from here, thanks. I’ll take care of it.”

***

The Radcliffe Infirmary was the busiest place he’d seen that day. Ambulances were coming and going, nurses, doctors, and orderlies hurrying in and out of Casualty to greet them. Morse pulled up behind one, opening the back door of the Jag to help the student out. A young man with a strong build and white clothes hurried forward to help Morse bring him into the triage area. The seats were taken up by grey-faced sweating individuals, many of them beginning to slump in their chairs, some lying on the ground. It was obvious the Radcliffe was running out of beds faster than newly stricken individuals were being brought through the door. Morse deposited the young man in an empty chair, and turned to go.

“You’re a copper, aren’t you?” asked the orderly, watching him. Morse inclined his head in assent. “We’ve more ill than we have bodies to porter them. Can you stay and help a while?”

Morse shrank back, feeling his eyes widened at the suggestion. “I don’t think –” he began.

“We’ll get you kitted out in a mask and gloves, nothing to worry about. The fever is minor for those who aren’t touched.”

Morse stood staring indecisively a second too long, and the orderly produced a mask and gloves from a white cabinet. He handed them to Morse, who took them reluctantly, slipping them on. The mask heated his face with his breath, an unfamiliar, uncomfortable feeling. The gloves were thin latex surgical gloves, the kind that had left Monica’s hands smelling faintly of rubber.

He was there for over an hour before extra assistance arrived from some of the less impacted regional hospitals, ambulances arriving to take out patients for whom the Radcliffe had no room, extra staff arriving to assist those who stayed. Morse, back and arms aching from assisting with transferring patients between beds and stretchers, grateful he took his leave, peeling the gloves and mask off as he went and depositing them in a wastepaper bin on the way out. The Jag had been pushed aside, out of the way of the ambulance zone to allow traffic to continue to flow. Morse got in, sinking gratefully into the leather seat, and started the engine. There was still more work to be done in town. He turned the heater to full to dispel the cold air, and headed for town.

***

By the time he got home that evening, he felt as though he had been working for two days straight. In fact, he almost had been, his shift having started in the afternoon the day before. With any luck the tide would turn on the fever in the next day or two, and the city would begin to return to normal. Already there had been three deaths, and many more gravely ill could at any minute to expire. Oxford, a gleaming gem of intellect and advancement, had dropped temporarily back into the Middle Ages, now a city wracked by plague and death.

Exhausted, Morse found he didn’t have much appetite. He made himself some tea and buttered toast for dinner, nearly falling asleep at the table after he finished. For once, he had no taste for the scotch sitting on his mantelpiece, and instead he passed it by on the way to his bed. He stripped out of his clothes, leaving only his vest and shorts, and sink down into the soft mattress. He pulled his blankets around him, but pushed them off again after only a few minutes, finding himself covered in sweat. He lay covered only in this sheet, listening to the sound of his breath rasping in his chest as he breezed slowly in and out. He was so tired… So very tired.


	2. CHAPTER 1

Morse woke feeling revitalized and refreshed. Sunlight was streaming in through his window, and he pulled the curtains open to look out on the bright blue morning. New green leaves were beginning to burst on the trees, the first buds of spring. He frowned at the sight for a moment – something about it struck him as peculiar, a tickle of wrongness in the back of his mind. But as he stared out at it the sensation faded and after a moment he rose, heading for the shower.

Thursday greeted him at the door when he arrived, the inspector already ready to begin the day. Morse smiled a greeting and proceeded his boss to the car.

“What’s on the docket for today?” asked Thursday as he got in. Morse shook his head.

“Nothing in overnight, sir. Just the usual.”

The usual was paperwork, cleaning up after cases that were proceeding to form, and dealing with the CID’s small fry – burglaries, menaces, forgery. Not much to sink the teeth into, but it was hard to complain when the alternative was murder.

“The equinox today, isn’t it?” asked Thursday as they sped along, heading for the station.

Morse blinked, frowning. The equinox? Surely it was too early in the year for that. But as he looked out the window, the sight of lively tulips in window boxes, and pink buds on the trees corrected him. This was the beginning of spring, right enough.

“I suppose so, sir,” said Morse, only a little uncertainly.

“Should be a time of celebration, but sometimes things get out of hand. You know how it is. Though I suppose last year…”

Last year he had been at County, and no one, least of all Church would have considered bringing him out for breaches of the peace. The year before that had been Carshall, a town singularly unattractive to those who worshipped the changing of the seasons.

They completed the journey in silence.

***

It wasn’t long before Morse discovered what Thursday had meant. Calls coming in for uniform, and then when the uniformed officers were exhausted, to CID, for a variety of breaches of the peace. Obscene acts in public parks, public disturbances in meadows and by the rivers, reports by concerned citizens of minors being led astray.

With Sergeant Jakes already out on a call near Thrupp, the call from a farmer near Marley Wood came to Morse. Two pairs of young folks heading for the standing stones, doubtless to be drawn into occult and perverse acts. Morse reported in to Thursday, the inspector’s face growing dark at the mention of minors. 

“I’ll come along.”

The day was still fine, but tinged now with a kind of invisible malice, a shadow that lay in Morse’s mind rather than on the bright green fields. The Equinox had been nothing but giggling girls in flower crowns and blushing young lads being told by their elders to sew their seed in the right season when he was younger. He had never had cause to see it from the other side of the law, to know the ugliness and danger of it.

The standing stones near Marley wood were nothing on Stonehenge; most were not in fact even standing. Morse had been to see them as an undergrad one summer’s day, and remembered more the beauty of the wood and the fields than any sort of majesty cast by the roughly circular collection of stones. 

They parked the car on the side of the road at the base of the hill; they were alone there there, although there were other tracks in the mud beside the paved surface. Morse pulled his coat around him, then wondered at it – the March day was balmy, with hardly a breath of wind. Thursday had opened not only his coat but his jacket, and was striding towards the hill with eyes only for the small grey spots in the distance. 

They trudged up the hill together in silence, feet sinking into the thick grass bursting here and there with daisies and buttercups, as though spring had long since kissed this earth. As they mounted it became clear that the stones were deserted, no trace of couples, underage or not, amongst their stately forms. 

“I suppose they’ve gone,” said Morse with relief.

“If they were ever here,” replied Thursday, dryly. “Could just’ve been some old bugger playing games with us.”

“Should we go back?” Morse stopped, glancing over his shoulder at the Jag.

“Might as well make a thorough search of it.” They went on, coming up to the circle. 

The moment they passed between the two stones, Morse felt the jolt like a current plugged straight into his spine. It was a sensation like thousands of buds bursting into bloom, tree roots digging down to crumble concrete, birds leaping from the nest and taking flight for the first time. Life, pure and undiluted. He swayed with it, and saw Thursday look at him. 

“What is it?”

Morse ran a hand over his brow, found his arm shaky. “Didn’t you feel it? When we entered the circle?”

“ _My_ circle,” rang a clear voice from the other side of the stones. A young woman in a white shift was standing between the only two truly standing stones, staring imperiously at them. Her head was wreathed with Medlar blossoms, her waste ringed with buttercups. She was barefoot in the grass, silver chains at her ankles. A priestess. This was more than a stone circle – it was a lay shrine. Morse blanched.

“What brings you here? You are not believers.” She strode forward, uncompromising and unafraid; Morse anchored himself against the urge to shrink back. 

“We were only looking to prevent harm,” said Thursday, placatingly. “To protect children.”

“Children? We do not welcome them. Nor do we accept heathens, those who bring suspicion and malice to our mysteries.”

“We do not,” broke in Morse, hurriedly. “We respect your practices, lady, and we mean no insult.”

The priestess had stopped in the centre of the circle, where a long, squat stone lay like a table, its surface smoothed by wind and rain. “Yet with your suspicion and your disbelief you profane this place, and the wonders we bring with the blessings of the goddess. We bring new life to the barren, strong sons and daughters to those whose life is empty of them. And you would spite this with your accusations.”

“No, lady,” protested Morse, but her face was already tight with anger, green eyes snapping. 

“Yes, sir,” she mocked. “Yes, you would. I will not allow such insult to the goddess, nor her circle.”

Thursday stirred. “Please, miss, we meant –”

“Silence.” Her voice rang out like a thunderbolt, and they froze. “You may complete the rite which brings all others to our door. Or one of you may forfeit his life – he who steps first from the circle. The choice is yours.”

“What rite is that?” asked Morse, apprehension clear in his tone. 

“To lie together on our alter, that a new life may be born.”

Morse flushed, Thursday stepped forward angrily. “That’s ridiculous – no life could come of it, and he is my subordinate, under my protection.”

“The price is the same for any who break our peace. The wrong was yours, it is not in my court to right it for you. You may take your choice of reparations.” She stepped backwards, form straight and head upright, until she walked through the gate by which she had entered. Like air shimmering over the desert she blurred, then vanished. 

For a moment both men stood without moving, staring after her. Then, slowly, Morse stepped forward away from the edge of the circle to join Thursday. “Sir –”

“I will not,” said Thursday, quietly. He turned to Morse and the constable could see the anger on his face; his skin was white with it, lips tight and drawn back nearly over his teeth. “I will not force that upon you.”

Morse swallowed. “No one said anything about force, sir,” he murmured, and Thursday’s anger morphed to a kind of aghast fear.

“Of course not, Morse – _of course not_. You know what I meant.”

Morse gave a little, scared smile. “Yes, sir. But…” he shrugged helplessly, out of words. 

“We can call her back,” said Thursday, gruffly desperate.

“Perhaps. But I don’t know that she would be inclined to offer a more appealing alternative. And as to forcing her…” he shuddered a little at the thought. Priestesses bore as much or as little power as their patrons cared to bestow on them, but they shared one commonality: they were beloved by their deities. Any violence or pain brought against them would be returned ten-fold, without a shadow of a doubt. 

“There may be things worth than death but this… this isn’t one of them,” he said quietly, shyly. And then, when Thursday didn’t answer, “Is it?”

Thursday’s face softened, sighing. “No, lad. But it’s not easy begun, or ended. If we do this, will you be able to forget it?”

Morse stared straight back at him, uncertainty forgotten. “I don’t know,” he said, honestly, “but I do know I couldn’t forget your death here. Not for anything.”

Thursday walked slowly forward, stopping by what the priestess had called the alter and falling to sit on it. He took his hat off, brushing his thumb over the edge of the brim. “Have you ever…” he shook his head. “I shouldn’t ask that of you. I shouldn’t say anything at all, I suppose.”

Morse crept forwards to sit beside him, perching on the edge of the stone slab. “What if you just close your eyes and pretend, sir? Just pretend I’m… someone else.” _Your wife_ seemed heresy, nothing but a shameful reminder, and Morse flushed hot and guiltily at the thought of it. “If you feel ashamed, or guilty, or…” he turned away stiffly. “It won’t help.” 

The idea of taking a man to bed wasn’t so perverse that it sickened him, but the idea of letting someone unwilling, someone who felt forced, touch him was terrifying. 

“Christ Morse,” spat out Thursday, sounding truly angry now, and Morse looked to find him staring as though he had been struck. “You know I’d do nothing to hurt you – cut my hand off, first. Right?”

Morse nodded slowly, and Thursday relaxed a little. “Right,” he said again, more certainly this time. “Shall we – shall we flip a coin, or…?”

Morse realised what was being asked of him – which of them should take the other – and he felt himself redden from collar to hairline. The idea of the act at all was alarming enough; the idea of doing such a thing to Thursday… He shook his head. “I – I would rather if you… if you would lead, sir,” he said, miserably. 

“Alright, lad. Alright. You needn’t worry for yourself. Just follow your own advice.” Morse smiled at the suggestion; as though he could imagine a partner with whom he would do this. In fact, of all the men he knew he could at least be grateful that it was Thursday here with him now. “I won’t touch you if you don’t give me permission,” Thursday said, speaking in a low voice now, resigned to this fate. “Will you let me, Morse?” he asked, hand hovering over Morse’s thigh.

Morse nodded once, neck so stiff it felt as if it was sheathed in metal. Thursday’s warm hand dropped to his thigh, stroking gently, and he tried to make himself relax. 

They proceeded slowly, Thursday taking no liberties, asking for permission to undress him, to lay him back, to stroke him. He felt anxiety from the inspector, but otherwise only determination and a double-edged twist of compassion. Thursday didn’t want him, but nor did he blame him. It was enough.

He couldn’t tell whether Thursday had personal knowledge of this act or not; certainly his hands never faltered once he began, and he offset any discomfort with pleasure. The stone was cold and unforgiving under Morse’s back, but after a while he forgot its presence, lost in the sensation and the whirlwind of thoughts inside his head. 

Thursday turned him on his front for the finish, and Morse was grateful for it; watching Thursday take him would have been too much. He wondered whether Thursday was motivated by the same thought; there was no way of knowing. Arousal was creeping into his touch now, a rough slide of it that made his stomach curl as Thursday pressed into him. Thursday’s emotions swerved almost dizzyingly as he took Morse, any anxiety or uncertainty replaced by need and lust. There was no pain, and as he continued Morse found himself leaning into the inspector’s heat, panting as he was stroked. 

He came with a wordless gasp as Thursday brought him off, wetting the stone with his seed. He felt himself contracting in a way he had never noticed before, Thursday groaning almost silently in his ear. The inspector followed him a moment later, the hot wet spurt inside him making him blush, then pull away. He dropped down off the stone to pull up his trousers and lie in the thick grass on his side. The cold came quickly, sweat cooling on his skin, and he curled inwards, shivering.

“Morse?”

He opened his eyes and looked up. Thursday was leaning over him, expression halfway between concern and fear. He forced a smile.

“I’m fine, sir.”

“I think you can drop the sir, Morse. For the next little while, please.”

Morse nodded, then rolled onto his knees and got up. He could feel the wet stickiness seeping out of him, dampening his shorts; his face was hot with embarrassment now. “Can we go?” he asked, trying to squash the desperation from his voice. 

Thursday reached down and he took his hand; felt the press of worry and shame in Thursday, nearly identical to his own. 

They paused inside the stones for a moment before stepping through, Thursday pushing himself forward before Morse could. No bolt of lightning fell, neither of them staggered, and they sighed with relief. 

“Can we not say anything about this? Not to anyone, I mean – not even Mrs Thursday?” He had no idea if theirs was such an intimate relationship that he would tell her, but the thought of her knowing, of her suspecting her husband of this… he set his jaw against the wave of bile that rose in him.

“Morse, you understand this wasn’t a choice, it was a necessity, don’t you? Others would understand as well – Mrs Thursday would understand.”

Morse looked at him, and some of his terror must have shown on his face because Thursday nodded slowly. “Alright. I wouldn’t have said anything to anyone but her in any case.”

“Thank you, si – Fred.” 

They wound up at the bottom of the hill; Thursday stopped before opening the door and looked across the shining black roof to his bagman. “Morse – are we going to be alright about this?” 

In his pockets, Morse’s hands fisted, but he gave a tiny inclination of his head. “Yes. In a little while, yes.”

***

As he had requested, they said nothing more about it, not to each other, not to anyone. There were few people who could have been told in any case – what had happened was wrong from every angle. They didn’t precisely avoid each other, but nor did they seek each other out. Not for a few days, until Morse ceased to have dreams of his hands and knees pressed against cold stone and the warm sun on his naked skin.

After that, it went if not entirely forgotten at least put behind them. Something which, for all intents and purposes, had never happened.

***

The first flush of spring passed on into greener, sunnier days; March passed into a beautiful April, and then a rather stormy May. Morse found himself hard-worked with the end of the school term and the usual drunken pranks and violent incidents caused by over-worked students. He came down with what he at first took to be a cold, nausea and sickness in the mornings and a tiredness that sank into his bones and refused to leave. When it didn’t resolve after a week he mentioned it to DeBryn, who took his vitals and recommended he eat more iron.

It didn’t help.

Eventually the nausea resolved itself, slinking away as mysteriously as it had come. But the exhaustion remained, a constant weight on his shoulders that sapped his desire to do anything: to rise in the morning, to walk to the bus stop and again to the station, to go out on calls, to do his shopping. By June, he was beginning to become used to the perennial tiredness. He got up at the last possible minute, snatched a bite and left; at work he was silent and difficult to rouse, after work he came home, ate, listened to a record or read for an hour or so, then fell asleep. It became a cycle of necessity, all life and colour slowly fading from his days.

Jakes, unable to get a rise out of him, eventually left off trying. Thursday pressed him gently and when that made no difference let him be; their relationship was still marred by what had passed between them, and neither dared test their bond.

***

It was entirely chance that brought him to Porter’s door; one of his students had been caught rowing on the broad at two in the morning, and had magicked his opponent into a stupor.

“Really,” said Porter, after assuring Morse that the attacked lad would wake on his own without any permanent damage, “I am ashamed of the boy. And disappointed. He’ll be sent down for this. Still, there’s no other way; we can’t suffer any losses of temper in our field.”

Morse nodded, suppressing a yawn. It was warm in Porter’s chambers, sun streaming in through the wide windows to pain the floorboards gold. The scent of lavender was calming, and Morse found himself wishing he could just go home, curl up in his bed and sleep away the rest of the day.

“Morse? Are you alright?”

Morse snapped to attention, finding the professor staring at him. “Yes, fine. Sorry; I didn’t sleep well last night.” An excuse which had already worn through its welcome at the station. 

“You look pale. Are you ill?”

He shook his head. “No, fine,” he said again, a little tersely. He stood to go, uninterested in being diagnosed. “Thank you for your time.” He held out his hand to shake, felt Porter’s curiosity. And then the moment it jumped to surprise. His brows furrowed. “What?”

Porter didn’t pull his hand away, instead stepped closer. “Morse… has something happened? Something a bit… unusual?”

Morse felt himself starting to sweat, stomach clenching. “No.”

Porter raised his eyebrows. “Are you sure?” and, when Morse didn’t answer, “I can feel it, Morse. What happened?”

Morse looked away. “It doesn’t matter. Nothing. I’m fine.”

“You aren’t.” The surety with which Porter spoke made Morse turn; fear welling up in him. Fear that there truly was something wrong with him, badly wrong. “Morse…” Porter released his hand and waved him to his seat; Morse didn’t move. “I’ve told you before, blood-mages sense magic. It runs as a part of a person’s being, tied inexorably to the stream of their life – that’s what makes tampering with it so dangerous. To feel it, we also feel that life itself, the thread of their being, if you will. Everyone feels a little different, but broadly speaking they have only one thread, one stream. Except, in certain cases, a specific segment of the population.”

Morse stared back. “Being whom, doctor?”

“Women, roughly from the age of 14 to 40. Women who are with child. Them, and you, Morse.”

Morse felt a wave of heat rising up in him as though from an inferno, his jacket growing tight across his chest. The air felt hot to breathe and he swayed; Porter guided him back into his chair. “All right, sit down. Sit down there, and breathe.”

Morse stared up at him, eyes wild, ignoring the advice. “What are you saying?”

“I think it’s up to you to tell me, Morse. There are ways by which such things may be accomplished – have you participated in any?”

“What ways?” snapped Morse, heart contracting painfully as if filled with shards of ice. 

“Certain rituals, occult practices.”

Morse dug his fingers into the chair’s armrests, nails dragging against the wood. “I – you’re wrong. This is madness.”

“I am rarely wrong, Morse. And you seem to know more than you’re saying,” said Porter, gently. “If you don’t believe me, is there someone else to ask? Another mage, a doctor, a –”

“A doctor,” said Morse, mind snapping to DeBryn. “But… this isn’t possible,” he said, almost pleading.

“It is, in certain circumstances. I think we had better go see your doctor.”

***

DeBryn was in his office, writing a report. He looked up in surprise at the knock, face taking on a puzzled look as he saw Morse and Porter in his doorway. “Morse? What brings you here?” He looked closer and frowned. “Are you ill?”

“No,” snapped Morse irritably. And then, less certainly: “Maybe. I – Doctor Porter thinks…” He stepped in and leaned up against the wall beside the doorframe, arms wrapped over his chest. “Doctor Porter thinks I’m… ill,” he said at last, unable to choke the word out. DeBryn stood, passing around his desk. 

“Ill how?”

“He isn’t ill,” said Porter, softly. “He carries a child.”

DeBryn stopped, halfway around his desk. His eyes flitted from Porter to Morse and back again. “Are you joking?” he asked, bristling.

“No, Doctor. It takes a great deal of magic, and an even stronger will, but it is possible. Morse won’t tell me what’s happened to make it so.”

Morse looked away, staring at the wall, his frame so tight he felt as though he might break if he were forced to move. 

DeBryn came to stand in front of him, watching him carefully. “Morse? Has something happened? Something been done to you?”

Morse ran a hand through his hair, felt it shake. “No. Yes. I –” he caught his lip between his teeth and bit until it hurt. “At the equinox,” he said, at last. “I – two of us disturbed the standing stones, a lay shrine to Spring. The punishment was to do as those who come to her looking for a child do, or risk death.”

“The other was a man,” said Porter, hardly a question. Morse nodded, just a tiny waver of his head. 

“Who, Morse? Another officer?” asked DeBryn.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Morse –”

“ _It doesn’t_ ,” barked Morse; DeBryn’s eyes widened and he pulled back. 

“Alright, Morse. Alright. But if Dr Porter’s right…”

“How can he be?” spat Morse, but he heard the desperation in his tone, the pleading: let this not be so. 

“You’d better come sit down on the sofa. Doctor, if you could give us a few minutes?”

Porter left, closing the door behind him, and Morse let DeBryn take him to his sofa. Behind it was his library of matters concerning the touched; Morse wondered if there was anything there about this. Given DeBryn’s shock, he could only guess not. 

The doctor examined him, taking his pulse, blood pressure, temperature and listening to his heart and breathing. “The equinox, you said? Too early to hear a heartbeat, then. I’ll need to take a blood sample.” He stepped out of the office, returning a minute later with a needle and empty vial. Morse rolled up his sleeve and looked away as the doctor slipped the needle into his vein, filling the capsule with blood. “Are you on any medications?”

Morse shook his head. “How long will it take?”

“I can run it in a day; get back to you tonight or tomorrow morning.” DeBryn removed the needle, then put a label on the vial and scrawled something on it. Morse rolled his sleeve back down, staring at the floor. 

DeBryn let Porter back in, leaving again to drop the sample off in the hospital laboratory. 

“If it is true, is there a way to stop it?” asked Morse, looking up. Porter blinked, face falling.

“Morse, this –”

“If you say it’s a gift, so help me, Doctor –” he rose to his feet, striding past DeBryn’s desk to stare out the window. The sun was shining cheerily outside, grass a vibrant green under its rays. “How could I carry a child to term – I’m a man, a police officer! And even if I could, what then? How could such a child be born? And even if _that_ were managed – I can’t raise a child; I can barely support myself and those who depend on me.” He could feel panic closing in on him, tight around his neck like a rabbit snare. It was smothering him, choking the breath from him; he raised a hand to his throat and dragged his tie and collar lose, breathing hard. 

“You’re thinking too far ahead, Morse – it can be sorted out.”

“No,” said Morse, turning wildly. “It can’t be. Not by you, not by anyone. There is only one solution to this; you find a way to undo it.” 

“I’ll look into it,” said Porter, eventually. “But you need to calm down; nothing rash you could do would solve this; don’t entertain it.”

Morse turned his mouth scornfully. “How can it? If it… if it were to die inside me, surely it would kill me too.” He tightened his muscles against the shudder that ran through him at the thought. 

What scared him even more was that he was beginning to believe this madness.

***

Morse went AWOL for the rest of the day, driving slowly around town and sitting by the river; anything to avoid being in the office. He returned the car at the end of the day and left a note for Thursday saying he had gone home ill; he couldn’t stand to drive him home. Couldn’t stand to be with him, to see his home, his family. The life Morse might ruin.

His anxiety kept him up later than usual, but there was no call from DeBryn and he went to sleep feeling cold and sick, alone with no possibility of help. 

He woke the next morning no less tired than any other day. Forced himself through his usual routine: shower, breakfast, bus. He almost baulked again at the Jag, but drawing attention and concern for his absence was worse than the job itself. He pulled out into the early morning traffic, the only thought on his mind what news DeBryn would bring him. 

At Thursday’s house he sat at the kerb for several minutes, hoping Thursday might notice the Jag and come out on his own. He didn’t, and eventually Morse was forced to get out and make himself walk up the pathway to the door. Ring the front bell and stand back, dread in his stomach.

The door was answered by Joan; Morse gave her a smile that felt like a grimace. She frowned at him, but stepped back to let him in. 

Usually the house was full of warmth and happiness, a comfort to return to. Morse felt none of it today as he stepped over the threshold, his entirety seething with shame and sick guilt. He poked his head around the dining room door and caught Thursday’s eye; the inspector was just finishing his eggs. “Morse. Come have a seat; feeling better?”

“Yes, sir. Fine; just something I ate, I think.” He didn’t step in, made no move to take a seat. Thursday finished his meal and Morse stood aside just as Mrs Thursday bustled along carrying his sandwiches.

Morse stared at her, feeling like a mad dog. Thursday’s wife, his children – a life of happiness and trust he had built over decades. If they knew what had happened – worse, what he suspected of himself – what then? How could he look any of them in the face? He turned away, feeling his mouth starting to water with his rising nausea, and stumbled out the door.

He was in his seat already when Thursday arrived, pulling on his coat and hat as he hurried along. “What’s the matter? Morse?”

Morse shook his head wordlessly. 

“If you’re not well, you ought to take the day, have a lie down,” suggested Thursday, watching him. Morse turned the key in the ignition, resolutely staring at the road in front of him.

“I’m fine, sir. Really.”

***

He got the call around ten, just after he had fetched tea for himself and Jakes from the canteen. “Morse? You should come in.”

Morse closed his eyes. There was only one thing that could mean; DeBryn would have given him a negative on the phone. He dropped his head into his hand, the other tightening on the receiver. “When?”

“Whenever you can. Today.”

He couldn’t stand the idea of drawing it out, wasting any more time than he already had. “I’ll call Porter; we’ll need him.”

“Alright.”

***

They convened again in DeBryn’s office, DeBryn at his desk, Porter sitting in the chair provided for guests, Morse standing in the corner again with his back to the wall.

“I doubt it was the ritual alone,” said Porter. “You still have some magic in you, residual load. I expect it’s feeding it, in part.”

“And if it runs out?” asked Morse, mouth dry.

“We will have to hope that it won’t.”

“We will have to hope you can find a solution to this,” corrected Morse, curtly. “I told you yesterday – it needs to be stopped.”

“Morse,” said DeBryn gently, “It _is_ a life – part of you. This isn’t easy, but it is miraculous – make your decision in awareness of that.”

Morse looked up at DeBryn, pale and angry. “ _This_ will ruin not only my life, but another’s as well. How do you expect any family could take it in, accept such a monstrously bastard offspring? How do you think I can look anyone in the face –” he cut himself off, jaw working as he looked away. 

“Morse,” said DeBryn, really shocked. “It’s no fault of yours, no reflection on you.”

“That changes _nothing_ ,” said Morse, scathingly. “Do you expect me to live with this? Waddle down the street with my bloated belly before me like some circus freak show? No.” He shook his head, very stiffly. “End it. My life is endangered by it, I have cause.”

DeBryn took a slow breath. “Very well – Dr Porter? Is there such a means?”

Porter, who had turned his chair to face both participants equally, shook his head slowly. “It will take more time to find the answer to that question. Right now I know of no way to remove the fetus; to end the pregnancy without doing so is clearly impossible. I will research the question.”

DeBryn nodded. “Morse? What of the – of the second man?” he asked, fumbling over the word _father._

“I told you; I won’t say. That is only to ruin his life as well.”

“You can’t do this alone, however long it takes Porter to find an answer. You need –”

“I need this to be over,” snarled Morse, and slammed out the door.


	3. CHAPTER 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get worse before they get better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: self-harm/attempted suicide.

Somehow Morse had thought that after the confirmation of Porter’s seemingly impossible theory, things would happen quickly.

In fact, for a long time, nothing happened at all. 

Porter set about searching the libraries, first in King’s college, then the Bodleian, and then the rest of the university. After the first week brought no news Morse ceased to wait day and night for the ring of the telephone, but it was never far from his mind.

As the weeks passed by he learned to suppress his seething anxiety around Thursday, but it only grew stronger as time went by. He would be putting on noticeable weight soon; the thought terrified him. He felt like a spring, being wound tighter and tighter with each day that passed.

June ticked over into July; a month had gone by and there was still no answer, still no progress. DeBryn forced him to stop by regularly to check on his health and that of the child. He no longer asked after the child’s second father; he had learned it wasn’t a question Morse would entertain. Morse suspected the doctor had a good idea in any case; there were after all few enough men Morse worked regularly with, and of those even fewer for whom he would be so concerned. 

The first few pounds he put on were largely unnoticeable; DeBryn had been telling him he ought to put some weight on in any case, and despite not seeming to eat anything beyond the usual he started gaining weight. After that it was his stomach that began to fill out, the low stretch from navel to pubic bone. What was once flat began to curve out gently, almost unnoticeably at first to the eye, except that his trousers started pinching at the waist.

He didn’t have the money for any of this. No money for new suits, for more food, for the vitamins DeBryn insisted he take. The notion of supporting a child was simply ludicrous; he couldn’t afford to stop working to do so, nor afford any kind of care. The only positive side was that there was no way the child could be born to him in any case, so its support was scarcely a problem with which he needed concern himself. No; he needed instead fear its illness, its death inside him and the septicemia that would bring. 

And he was still exhausted. The one conclusion Porter had come to was that the process was far less efficient in him than it would be in a woman, and that beyond burning away his magic it was burning away his own stamina and strength, sapping him even as it grew within him.

***

It was one of the hottest Augusts on record, the whole of the station sweltering with it. All the windows were left open, clunky fans adorning nearly every desk. But there was no cool air to move, only more unrelenting heat. Morse was the only one wearing his suit jacket; it hid the swelling lines of his stomach in a way that his loosened trousers no longer did.

“Putting on some weight, Morse?” asked Jakes, glancing at him as he wandered past, cigarette hanging from his lips. “Found someone’s cooking to enjoy?”

“Leave off,” snapped Morse, pounding at his typewriter. The a and s had jammed together and he smashed furiously at them.

“Alright, I was just –”

“Just what, Jakes?” he snarled. “Poking your goddamn nose in where it’s not wanted?” 

There was a beat of silence and he looked up; Thursday was standing behind Jakes; they were both staring at him. Morse gave the typewriter one last pounding, then stood up.

“Morse,” said Thursday, inclining his head towards his office.

For a minute he considered not going. Just leaving, walking out and finding someplace cooler to think, clear his head. But Thursday was waiting for him; he went. 

“You’ve not taken any holidays in months, Morse. You’re long overdue; why don’t you take some, go away somewhere?” suggested Thursday.

As if he could. He had to save his meagre days up against the possibility they would be needed – not that they could ever be enough. He looked away. “I’m fine, sir. I’ll apologize; it’s the heat…”

“It’s not. Not just that. You’ve been off for months, Morse – since…”

Morse’s eyes flew back to him; Thursday was already wincing at the wordless suggestion. But Morse didn’t let it go. “Since what? Say it.”

“We agreed, lad – I know it’s hard, but there’s nothing to be done but move on.”

“Move on,” said Morse, heat searing under his collar, sweat running down his back. He felt as though he were in an oven, roasting. “ _Move on_. How the _hell_ can we just move on? I –” he caught himself and strangled the words. 

How could he possibly tell Thursday? And even worse, what would happen if he did? When the inspector went home to tell his wife, his children, that he was expecting a child – a child by his constable. A man they invited into their perfect home, trusted with their husband and father, with their lives. A man who had been buggered out in broad daylight like a common whore.

Morse made a choked sound in his throat and turned away.

“Morse, wait –”

But he was already gone. Out the door, out the CID incident room, then down the stairs and out the station. He was practically running, fleeing from Thursday, from the staring eyes, from this nightmare he’d fallen into. 

He kept going until he came to the river, finally stopping by its edge to collapse in the shade of an ash tree. His lungs were burning and he gasped air in, head spinning dizzily. He heard Thursday calling after him in the distance and made to stand, but his muscles were shaky and limp and he fell back, leaning up against the ash’s narrow trunk. 

Thursday came panting up, breathing like a bellows to stop in front of him and rest his hands on his knees. He was in his shirtsleeves, tie hanging crookedly down from his neck; above his collar, his throat was red with exertion. “Christ, lad, I’m not as young as I used to be. What’s gotten into you?”

Morse stared back at him silently, feeling the spring inside him winding tighter with each breath, so close to leaping open and spearing him right through the heart. 

“Morse?” asked Thursday, more quietly, straightening part-way to lean forward cautiously. Like a man speaking to a frightened animal. “What is it? You can’t keep running from this.”

“I can’t run from it at all,” said Morse; he intended to snap but his voice was shaky, tremulous. 

“Run from what? From me?”

Morse opened his mouth and then closed it again, eyes narrowing with pain. “I can’t. I _can’t._ Please. I…” He looked up at Thursday, found him staring down in apprehension. “Talk to DeBryn,” he said, at last. “Tell him… tell him I told you to.”

Thursday frowned. “DeBryn? Are you ill?”

“Just talk to him.”

“Alright; I will. But I want you to go home; you’re not right. I’ll drop you, then go see him.”

Morse shook his head, tense and nervy. He needed time to breathe, to cool his head, to think. His head felt jammed full of thoughts all running round and round in maddening circles, each one screaming for his attention. “I’ll go on my own.”

“Morse –”

“I’ll be fine. Please, just… just let me be.” He could hear the shaky panic in his voice, felt ready to bolt again. Thursday stared at him with concern in his eyes, then sighed, backing down.

“Alright. We’ll talk later. I mean it, Morse.”

Morse nodded, eyes slanting away to watch the water flowing past. Thursday straightened and then turned on his heel, walking back along the grass to the pavement, and then heading back into the city. 

It was calm here. Calm and cool, the river bringing a welcome chill breeze. He wiped the cooling sweat from his forehead and sat for several minutes, listing to the trickle of the water and feeling his thoughts slow from their frantic pace. Eventually he pulled himself to his feet and turned to make his way home.

***

Back at his flat he had the remains of a tin of beans on toast; he was too tired for anything else. It was hot in his top-floor rooms, all the building’s heat collecting there to smother him, and eventually he shed his clothes and took a cold shower.

The water was delightfully cool on his skin, rinsing away a small measure of the tension that was always in him these days. He let it pour over his shoulders and down his chest and back, bringing a fleeting peace with it. He lost track of time standing under its flow, until he finally began to feel not deliciously cool but uncomfortably cold. 

He was just reaching to turn off the handle when the door to the bathroom banged open. Morse’s heart leapt into his chest and he shoved the curtain aside, right hand raised to attack or defend. 

Thursday was standing in the doorway, eyes wide and shocked. An instant later he turned, averting his gaze. “You didn’t answer the door – I thought – I’m sorry,” he managed, and closed the door behind him. 

Morse turned off the water, leaning his head back against the tiles for a moment while his heartbeat slowed. Thursday knew. He knew and he thought – what? That Morse was in danger? Or that he was a danger to himself. 

Morse dried himself, towel passing hurriedly over his belly without care or attention; he avoided his own reflection in the mirror and pulled on the clothes he had just shed; all the rest were out in the flat with Thursday. 

Thursday was pouring himself a drink when he emerged; he glanced over his shoulder but said nothing, face tight. 

“DeBryn told you.” It wasn’t a question.

“You ought to have said something before now. How long has it been? Nearly five months? Hell, Morse, you –” he snapped his jaw shut and finished pouring his drink, replaced the bottle on its self. “You shouldn’t have taken it on alone,” he finished, more softly. 

Morse sat on the bed, looking across the room at Thursday as the inspector came to stop beside the dinner table. “Why – what can you do? Nothing but worry, and spread bad news.” He shook his head. “It was better you didn’t know.”

“And leave you to shoulder it all? Don’t be ridiculous; I’d never have accepted that. Look at you – it’s tearing you apart, that’s plain enough.”

Morse set his jaw, eyes flashing. “How could it not? I can’t bring this child into the world – it would ruin both of us. Better I find another way –”

“What other way?” pounced Thursday, voice rough.

“Porter. It was magic that did this, and magic that needs to undo it.”

Thursday set his drink down on the table in a slow, deliberate motion. “And can he?” he asked, tone unreadable.

Morse sighed. “Not so far. He’s still looking – there must be a way.”

“Magic has very little scope within the medical field, Morse. There’s no way to magic away cancer, or tuberculosis,” pointed out Thursday, carefully.

“Magic doesn’t bring cancer, nor tuberculosis. But it brought this,” returned Morse, angrily. “It brought this, and it can damn well take it.”

Thursday drank half his glass in one go, then put it down and came over slowly. He stood at Morse’s side for a moment, and when Morse didn’t flinch from him, sat down beside him. “We will find a way through this, Morse. You’re not alone – I’ll never leave you alone with this. Do you understand?”

Morse sat straight-backed, and slowly turned to look at Thursday, his mask of anger and outrage finally cracking to reveal the unrelenting anguish beneath. Thursday wrapped his arms around Morse and pulled him into a tight embrace. “Christ, Morse, why can’t you ever just let me help you?”

Morse shook his head, throat too choked for words. 

“It’ll be alright. You’ll be alright. Whatever happens, we’ll find a way. I promise.” Thursday rubbed Morse’s back as he spoke, holding Morse close against him. Morse closed his eyes. He so wanted to believe everything would be alright, _could_ be alright.

But that didn’t make it any more possible.

***

Even with Thursday’s support he couldn’t make time slow, or speed up Porter’s research. And although he forced Thursday to promise not to tell his family – the idea of them knowing what had taken place still made him feel as though knives were stabbing into his gut – he wouldn’t be able to hide it for much longer. He seemed to be putting on weight daily, the curve of his belly waxing like the moon. A pit of dread appeared in his stomach and refused to be dismissed, growing wider and wider with each day – sometimes, it felt like, each hour. He was running out of time, running out of hope. His chances were stacked in a house of cards, and they grew more and more precarious as it grew with the passing days.

The first time he felt the child move he was in Thursday’s office, standing with his back to the door while they discussed the potential charges for a man suspected of conspiring to murder a factory foreman. 

He was pressing for heavier charges than perhaps were a surety when he felt it, a sensation like something turning inside him. He stopped, glancing down in shock while one hand flitted to his stomach. 

“Morse?”

He looked up to see Thursday half out of his seat, watching him in concern. 

“I – yes – it’s… it…” he closed his eyes. 

For the first time, the life inside him felt like something more than a burden, than a curse. Felt like an innocent, depending on him. He couldn’t accept that, couldn’t let himself think that way. Couldn’t let this go any further. He could feel the panic rising in him like steam from a screaming kettle, searing his insides. He needed this to be _over_. He fisted his hands, opening his eyes. 

“I’m fine.”

***

He was six months gone, and even he knew time was running out. He went to Porter the next afternoon, alone and unannounced. It was raining, a sudden hard summer shower, and he ran from the car to the college gate, raincoat wrapped around him.

“You have to end this. Now,” he said, water dripping from his hem, as soon as the professor let him into his rooms. “Please – I can’t –” 

Porter looked at him, face shrouded in sympathy. “I’m sorry, Morse. I haven’t found anything. There’s research on how to bring such a condition about, but none on how to end it – it’s never been anything but desired. And at this point, I don’t think I can keep looking. You’re too far along; to act now would be to risk too much.”

Morse shook his head, desperate, uncompromising. “You have to: I can’t do this. I can’t keep it up, Porter. _Please_ ,” he pleaded, voice almost breaking with the turbulence of his emotion. _I’m losing my nerve, my wits, my strength._

Porter stood, coming to stand beside him. “I’m sorry, Morse. Truly. But there’s nothing I can do.” 

He made to put a hand on Morse’s shoulder; Morse pulled away, wild and distraught. He swerved and darted out of the office, running pell-mell down the corridor beneath the belled ceiling and down the stairs to the quad.

Outside the rain was still coming down, sky grey and unrelenting. Morse ran out the gate and down the road, blindly pushing his way past pedestrians with coats and umbrellas. He stumbled across the road and kept going, no thought in his mind other than the need to escape. Escape the past, the future, all of it. 

He kept on through town, sopping wet now, and out into the less busy residential streets. Legs giving out he collapsed on a bench, no idea where he was and completely uninterested. He sat in the rain, staring blankly at the houses across the street from him without seeing them. All he knew was the yawning maw of despair and horror beneath him; he felt himself tottering on the edge, so close to going over. There was no way to fix this, no way he could find a way out. No way forwards, and no way back. Thursday’s family – the perfect home he had never had, the station, the _world_ , they would all bloody know what he’d done. He would be ruined and Thursday along with him, the two of them ripped apart as fodder for the vultures. 

“Morse?”

Morse looked up dumbly, and stared.

Mrs Thursday was coming down the street, a yellow umbrella overhead and a bag of shopping on her arm, looking kind and homely in a knit jumper and tweed skirt. 

He couldn’t get up, couldn’t speak, couldn’t do anything other than stare. Like the Lady of Shalott he saw his world breaking into pieces, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. 

“What on earth are you doing out in the rain, love? Look at you, you’re soaked to the bone. Come on, you can get dried out at home. Morse?” She put her hand on his arm, tugging him up. He started shaking and she put her arm around him, leading him down the street. “That’s right, love. You come with me. You’re alright.”

It was as though he had dropped into a shadow-world, all grey soundlessness. He hardly noticed the houses passing, didn’t see the cars that drove by or the people they passed. He had fallen into the gaping pit and found not fear and horror but nothingness, empty all around him.

Mrs Thursday led him up the path to the house, unlocking the door and pushing him in. He went without protest, shivering now from the cold. “Poor lad, you’re frozen through. I’ll call Fred; you’d best have a bath and get warmed up.” She put down her bag and took his coat from him, then led him up the stairs. There were several doors in the hall; she opened the second on the right and led him into a small bathroom. Its counter was cluttered with bottles and sprays and combs; a hanging shelf provided more room for more of the same. 

Mrs Thursday closed the lid of the toilet and sat him down there, then reached over and started the bath. “I’m sure Sam has something you can wear until your clothes dry; if you leave them by the door I’ll take care of them.” 

He stared at her wordlessly and she ran a tender hand over his hair. “It’ll be alright, love. I’ll get Fred for you. Don’t fret yourself.” She hurried out, leaving the door partially open.

Morse looked after her for a minute, then up at the counter. There were two glasses, one holding several coloured toothbrushes, the other a straight razor. 

He listened to her voice downstairs on the phone, urgent and tight. Thursday was on the other end. Thursday, who would come home and find him here, like this. Who would break the happiness, the loving home Morse had always wanted but never had. 

Thursday, who would tell his wife he had taken his bagman to bed. Slowly, he reached for the razor. 

His fingers were numb from the rain; he fiddled with his cuff button for several seconds before managing to open it, shoving his sleeve upwards inattentively. 

Numb. Not just his skin but his mind, his heart. He felt nothing at the sight of the naked blade in his hand, neither fear nor triumph. Just a deadness, as though he were in someone else’s skin, watching someone else’s hands. His connection to this life was breaking, tearing away like thick rope between a scissors. This was the best way – erase everyone’s problems at once. Take away the contamination, the taint he’d brought to this house. The disgrace he’d brought to himself.

Morse pressed the razor to his forearm, closed his eyes and began to draw it across. 

Inside his abdomen, the child kicked. His hand slipped, blade skidding along a shallower line as it crossed his skin. Blood was already running down his arm to stain his white shirt bright scarlet; he gave a sick moan. 

“Morse?”

Morse’s head snapped up; Mrs Thursday was just outside the door, had come up while his attention was distracted. Shakily, he raised the blade to his arm again, and she pushed the door open. 

For an instant the world was still, the two of them staring at each other in horror. Then the moment shattered like glass, and Morse gritted his teeth and pulled. Win Thursday was faster.

Like a tigress she dodged into the room, wrestling his arm away and then snatching the blade from him, tossing it out the open door and down the hall. 

The world seemed to snap back into vibrancy and colour, Morse’s numbness evaporating and he found himself on the bathroom floor in Win Thursday’s arms, a towel wrapped tightly over his arm. His blood was smeared on the floor, on his shirt, on her. A buzzing sound droned in his ears and a chill washed over him, rising from his stomach and spreading outwards. The room pulled in and out of focus once, twice, and then everything went black.

***

For a while, everything was darkness and low voices, too far away for him to hear.

He felt nothing here: no pain, no fear, no anguish. As though he were afloat in a calm sea, all his cares washed away.

***

Morse woke in a dark, unfamiliar room. There was a shadow by his side. DeBryn, he recognized as his vision cleared.

He felt heavy, as though his blankets were made of lead. And tired, always tired. 

“Morse?” DeBryn’s voice was unusually gentle. “How do you feel?”

“Heavy. Tired.”

DeBryn nodded, reaching out to take Morse’s pulse; the doctor felt calm and collected, worry almost entirely suppressed. 

“That’s the morphine. It will wear off in a little while.”

Morse blinked. “Morphine?”

DeBryn pulled his hand away, apparently satisfied. “You don’t remember?”

Morse thought back. He remembered – a grey, cold world without colour. Despair, hopelessness. And then just a numb, empty conviction: There was only one thing to be done. 

He reached out and pulled down the blankets. His left arm was lying by his side, a bandage peeking out from under the cuff of the dark pyjama top he was wearing. He looked back to DeBryn, suddenly afraid. “I –”

“Did you mean it, Morse?” asked DeBryn, softly. Morse stared at the bandage. Remembered a smear of red, his stained shirt, Mrs Thursday’s resolute face.

“Mrs Thursday,” he whispered, shame flooding into him. Shame for what he’d done in her house, what he’d done with her husband, the state he was in. 

“Stop that,” snapped DeBryn abruptly, taking hold of his good arm and pressing it tight. “Morse – just stop it. No one is blaming you but yourself. This guilt, this shame you’re carrying – it’s only in your mind.”

Morse shook his head wordlessly. DeBryn leaned forward, speaking slowly and clearly. “Listen to me, Morse. Fred Thursday’s downstairs with his wife, and the only thing either of them is worried about is you. Whether you’re hurt, whether you’re ill.”

“She –” 

“She knows. Thursday told her hours ago. She loves Thursday, Morse, and she cares for you. How could she wish either of you dead?”

Morse turned away, eyes stinging. There was a knock on the door and DeBryn rose. A murmured conversation was held in the doorway, and then there was a heavy step on the floor.

“I’m sorry, lad,” said Thursday heavily, sitting down in DeBryn’s chair. His voice was gritty, choked. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know how wound up you were, how desperate. I said I’d not see you hurt, and then in my own home –”

“Don’t,” begged Morse, turning over quickly and half sitting up. “Please, sir. It’s my fault – I should never have thought of doing something so awful here, alone with Mrs Thursday.”

Thursday stared back at him for a moment, eyes damp with anxiety and guilt. “There’s no controlling that kind of desperation, Morse,” he said at last, softly. “I should never have let it go so far. I thought I could understand, and I was wrong. You need more than just my word that everything will be alright. You need proof.”

Morse frowned. “Proof?”

Thursday looked to the door, and a figure Morse hadn’t noticed stepped in. Mrs Thursday.

Morse felt his stomach kneading itself into knots, a cold rush of horror washing through him. Thursday put a hand on his shoulder, a reassuring warm weight.

Mrs Thursday’s face was all concern and sorrow as she came forward; she pressed past Thursday and drew Morse up into a hug. “Oh, love. You poor lad. Poor, poor lad. Don’t fret yourself over this an instant more. Don’t ever let yourself think you’re not loved or wanted.”

Morse found himself curling into her arms, shaking. She was soft against him and smelt of jasmine and citrus flowers; a clean, sweet smell. “I’m sorry – I’m sorry – I’m sorry –” the words were lost in his sobs, gasping, silent heaves.

“Don’t you be sorry, Morse,” she said, fiercely. “Don’t you be sorry for anything that’s happened to you. Just be strong – and try to trust us a little.”

He pulled away, wiping at his face with his sleeve and swallowing back the rest of his tears. Thursday was sitting on the bed by his legs, his hand on Win’s knee.

“We’ll make it work, Morse. The only way we can is by facing it. Together. Can we do that?”

Morse looked from Win Thursday to her husband – the two of them strong, unwavering, caring. He gave a little nod. “We can try.

***

Joan and Sam, he found out when he asked, had been sent to spend the night with friends. “We can tell them later; this is enough for now,” said Thursday, and Morse felt profoundly grateful at the words. He never found out how he had gotten from the bathroom to Thursday’s tiny spare room, or equally how DeBryn had been called out; he didn’t have the courage to ask.

He had stew and dumplings in bed that night, DeBryn sitting with him while the Thursdays ate downstairs. They didn’t trust him alone, he realised, and hardly blamed them. He didn’t know that he trusted himself. For all Thursday and his wife’s words, he could still feel that cold fog hovering on the edge of his thoughts, feel the cold emptiness of its touch. It was different from the despairing resoluteness he’d known as a teenager – he had been tired of life, then, but not wanting to die. He hadn’t known then there was a difference but he knew now, and it frightened him.

That night, DeBryn gave him a tranquiliser; Morse doubted it was very strong, but it kicked in quickly, drawing his eyes closed, and knocked him out for the whole night. 

He woke up the next morning to find Mrs Thursday sitting with him, darning a sock. She gave him a smile when she saw him awake, putting down the sock and wooden mushroom. “I just put the kettle on, dear; tea in a minute.”

Morse started to get up, stopping when she lay a hand on his shoulder. “Work – I have to –”

“You’re not going in today,” she said, with finality. “Neither is Fred. Just rest; Fred said you’ve been tired.”

He shrunk back shyly, embarrassed to be lying abed while she was up. 

“Morse, do you believe me when I say I don’t blame you?” she asked, quietly.

He licked his lips, thinking. “It’s hard for me to,” he admitted, finally, truthfully. “I was so glad to forget what had happened – and then when I couldn’t anymore, all I felt… all I feel is shame,” he whispered, looking at her, face drawn in anguish. “Ashamed that you know – that others do. Ashamed of what’s happening to me; something unnatural, _wrong_."

“Perhaps if you had a child, you would feel differently,” suggested Mrs Thursday, surprising him by not arguing with him. “I won’t say I know what you’re feeling, but there is embarrassment in pregnancy, Morse; any mother knows it. Everyone can see what you are, and they all know what got you that way. For all that it’s the most natural thing in this world, there’s something terribly indecent about sex. Between anyone – men and women, or men, or women. I won’t tell you that bearing a child is wonderful and miraculous – there’s discomfort, and awkwardness, and frustration, and much of it is constant. But bringing a new life into the world _is_ wonderful, Morse – a tiny part of yourself to cherish and protect and love. I hope you can learn to see that, as well as the burden it is.”

“I don’t know,” he said, softly, meaning it. 

“Try,” urged Mrs Thursday, pressing his hand; he felt her warm compassion, her earnesty, her concern. 

There was a knock at the door; Thursday, with a tea tray. Morse stared at the sight of his superior bringing him tea in bed, then glanced away.

“Yes, yes, don’t get used to it,” groused Thursday, recognizing the look. “We’ll have you back on your feet by the evening.”

“I’m alright. Really,” he said, as Thursday set the tray down on his lap. Beside the tea there was buttered toast, apple slices and a soft-boiled egg in a cup. 

Mrs Thursday stood and excused herself and Thursday took her place, filching an apple slice and eating it. “Are you really feeling better, then?” he asked, seriously. 

Morse put down the tea cup – sugar and no milk, the way he liked it – and traced the smooth top of the eggshell. “I saw Porter yesterday,” he said, quietly. “He told me he’d given up. No way out. I think… if I had time to think about it, to make sense of it, I would have managed. But I didn’t; Mrs Thursday found me and insisted on my coming home with her. I knew she’d call you and that you’d tell her and… it all just imploded on itself. Everything I’d been dreading coming home to roost, all at once.” He looked over to Thursday. “I know you said it would be alright, but I couldn’t believe that – not of this. My family nearly excommunicated me after St Giles; they would never understand or forgive this. How could I believe yours would?”

Thursday sighed. “And you couldn’t have told me this?”

“I never thought it would come up – never believed… never really believed it would end up this way. That Porter wouldn’t find something. I suppose I’d come to rely on that as my only option. Without it, everything just crumbled. No way back, no way forward.”

Thursday leaned forward, sombre and earnest. “We will find a way forward, Morse. I want you to believe me when I tell you that – really believe it. If you can’t, tell me.”

Morse nodded slowly, carefully. “I’ll do my best.”

“Then we’ll do what’s best for you, and the child.”

“And you,” said Morse. Thursday stared back, unbending.

“You come first.”


	4. CHAPTER 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something sweet for Valentine's Day.

Later that morning they sat all together in the Thursday’s spare room and talked. Just the three of them and a pot of tea.

Morse had never really had much interaction with Win Thursday – “Just Win, love,” – before; just a drink or two over the years, and the usual seeing off she gave Inspector Thursday in the mornings. He found her quick, kind, and thoughtful. 

“The most important thing, if this is to happen, is that the child has a normal life,” said Morse, sitting up in bed with his knees raised, blankets nested around him. Thursday was sitting on the end of the bed, Win in the chair. 

“The most important thing is that the right thing’s done, by both you and the child,” corrected Thursday, in a low voice. “I could retire; they’re still offering packages in advance of Thames Valley. It would be enough for the raising of it, and I could do the minding.”

“I would find a new position easily, sir, in a few years – I should leave; I don’t have much savings, but if I had some support I could manage until the child was old enough for some kind of care, surely. And I’m sure I could do odd jobs – tutoring, proofing for the students.”

Win sighed. “Listen to the pair of you. The city’s finest detectives, overlooking the perfectly obvious. Neither of you needs to leave his job; I can mind the child. Morse can do as he likes; stay here as long as he wants after its born. You can have the spare room, love, and the child can take it afterwards. Or once Sam’s gone for the army, you could move in there – saving money is a fine excuse.”

Morse coloured. “I can’t ask you to raise…” he faltered, unable to finish the thought. The words in his mind – your husband’s child – cut too deep. 

“The child needs a home, needs people to love it unconditionally, without resentment of lost wages or lost jobs. We can give that, so we will.”

Morse’s breath caught at her generosity – her selflessness. “I won’t ask you to raise my child,” he said, and shook his head against her protest. “But if you can – if you will – you can raise yours. Yours and Inspector Thursday’s. Make up whatever story you want – adoption, an unlucky relative – I don’t care. I’ll play as little a part in its life as you want; it will be yours.”

“Morse,” started Thursday, gravely; Morse interrupted before he could go on.

“It’s the only way. How could you expect a child to understand what happened – never mind anyone else? It deserves a normal life, with loving parents. The best parents I know,” he added, quietly. “I’ll remain your subordinate – a family friend. Anything more than that…” he shook his head.

“You may feel differently, once the child is here,” said Win Thursday, softly. He looked at her, lip curling into a sad smile.

“It’s the only way – it doesn’t matter what I feel. What matters is what’s best.” He spoke with absolute certainty. If he was to bring a child into this world, it would have the best chance it could – the family he never had. 

“You won’t fall out of its life,” said Thursday, his tone half-order. Morse shook his head gently.

“Not if that’s not what you want.”

“I want you to be happy, lad. The both of you. Together, as much as you can be.”

Morse twisted his fingers in the smooth cotton of his sheets. “And until it’s born?” his hand lingered over his stomach, not quite touching his belly. It was impossible to disguise his weight-gain; soon it wouldn’t be possible even to pass it off as natural. 

“DeBryn and I talked about that last night. He thinks we should put it about that you’re in quarantine – he suggested Scarlet Fever. You’ll make half pay after your vacation runs out, but it’s better than nothing, and certainly better than the alternative. You can stay here.”

The idea of being tossed into the tumble of the Thursday household, spending months trapped in the company of the lives he was inconveniencing, if not ruining, was too much to take. “No. Thank you, but I think I need some space.”

Thursday looked uncertain, but his wife nodded. “We’ll find you what you need. It would be better if it were with someone…”

Morse considered. There were few people he could ask in Oxford, fewer still he would want to. “I’ll talk to DeBryn,” he said at last, and that seemed to meet with approval.

***

DeBryn lived alone in a rambling one-storey home in North Oxford on a shady plot of land covered in oaks; when asked if he would put Morse up for a while he agreed without hesitation. “You can stay as long as you need, so long as you’re not offended by unimaginative meals or a cat.”

Morse smiled and said no, and that was that. 

Thursday volunteered himself to help Morse move those of his belongings he would need for the three months ahead – an act which Morse strongly suspected meant he would insist on doing the work himself. 

He arrived, not empty-handed as Morse was expecting, but with a long thin parcel wrapped in butcher’s paper and a small bag. Morse stared as he let Thursday in, smelling the clean fresh scent of pine on the inspector. He looked down sharply at the parcel, then back up. 

“Sir…”

“Fred as of now, Morse. DeBryn’s putting in the papers as we speak; you’re under quarantine, and no longer my bagman. Not for a few months.”

Morse swallowed, looking at Thursday’s packages. “And those…” 

“If you’re to keep the child, it needs the proper protections.” There was little room for disagreement in his tone; he was watching Morse with dark eyes. “Should’ve been done before now, of course, but I held off thinking they wouldn’t be needed.” He opened the long parcels to reveal long newly-cut pine boughs, as Morse knew they would. Cut by his own hand, with an iron blade. It was a man’s duty to protect the mother of his child, or whatever Morse could imagine calling himself. Protection from the night and the horrors that hid in the darkness.

“I’ll do right by you any way I can, Morse,” he continued, softer, laying the boughs down so one slanted over the other at a very obtuse angle. His eyes were steady, watchful, as he crouched on Morse’s floor. “If you’ll let me.”

Morse pursed his lips, then nodded. Thursday gave a short smile, standing to open the bag he’d brought. From it he produced a white shift, an ivory-hafted knife, a paint brush and a small jar filled with red liquid – cockerel’s blood. 

Morse took the tunic-length cotton robe and stepped around the corner and out of Thursday’s gaze. Shed his clothes, even the white bandage over the still-healing wounds on his arm, and wriggled into the white cotton. It hung just above his knees, settling in close over his belly. He took a long breath, felt the child rising and falling with it, then stepped out, one arm hooked over the opposite elbow. Thursday stopped in the act of unscrewing the jar, his eyes falling to Morse’s waist. Morse flushed, felt the roll of heat from his chin to his forehead. 

“Do you know what needs to be done?” asked Thursday a moment later, looking away. 

“More or less.”

“It isn’t difficult; won’t take long.” He opened the jar and put the brush in it, setting them on the table. He lay the knife down beside them, then turned to Morse who glanced down at the crossed branches. His fingers rubbed at his elbow and he bit his lip, face tentatively questioning. 

“Well?” asked Thursday, stepping over to him.

“Is it alright – can you –”

“I’m not so decrepit as all that,” replied Thursday gruffly. “I’ve had enough practice carrying you about.” And then without warning, as if to prove it, he leant down and picked Morse up, one arm under his back, the other his knees. Morse went limp, the only alternative to struggling, and stared. Thursday took one, two, three steps forwards and carried Morse over the green boughs, holding him for just a second longer than necessary before putting him down on the other side. Morse felt himself breathing quickly, touched almost despite himself by Thursday’s concern and care. The older man picked up the knife and, with a glance at Morse, cut a long slit in the front of the shift, shearing it from sternum to pelvis. He picked up the jar and, with a steady hand, painted a trailing row of sigils over the crown of the baby’s womb. Thursday frowned in concentration as he painted; Morse let his eyes slide half-closed against the tickle of the brush, the cold trickle of the blood. 

Thursday finished by resting his hand, fingers splayed, over the centre of Morse’s belly; on the back of his hand he painted one single sigil. Morse knew without looking what it would be: _always_. A threat, and a promise. He would ruthlessly defend this life against any who threatened it, as long as he breathed. Morse could feel the truth of it: Thursday’s fierce desire to protect this child. 

The child whose life he had nearly ended, along with his own. Morse felt his throat closing up and looked away. 

Thursday lifted his hand away gently, looking up. “Morse?”

“It’s nothing.” He cleared his throat and looked back. “May I change now?”

“One more thing.” Thursday stood and, with his unpainted hand, produced a small box from his pocket. He opened it himself before turning it to show Morse what it contained: a glinting iron circle with a perfectly round hole carved in it two-thirds of the way to the top, turning its curve into a sickle. Along the curve tiny sigils had been engraved by cunning workmanship. Charms for safety and protection; all pregnant women wore them, gifted them by their husbands. Win Thursday would have a matching one, or perhaps…

Morse opened his mouth, finding it suddenly dry. “That’s not… I mean, it didn’t belong to…”

Thursday frowned. “No, lad,” he said, sternly, “I’d never give –” he cut himself off, and Morse realised he had insulted the inspector. 

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.” 

Thursday crooked his lip in a half-smile, forgivingly. “No. It’s alright.” He looked at it, light playing over the dull surface. “It’s new, fashioned for you.”

Morse bent closer and squinted; in the curved line of tiny sigils he recognised the two that mattered: _empath_. His stomach gave a little lurch. “Thank you.”

Thursday shrugged and let it fall on its chain only to open the clasp and hang it carefully about Morse’s neck. “I doubt you’re partial to pendants, but wear this one. Please.”

As it settled beneath the shift against Morse’s skin, he felt a hot curl of excitement and love, as of a heart straining to contain it. He rested his hand over it, then looked to Thursday.

“Is that how you feel?” he asked, carefully.

“I imagine it must be,” replied Thursday, tone low. For a moment he watched Morse with shuttered eyes, then turned and made for the wardrobe. “Time to make some headway.”

***

Morse was installed for what he was beginning to think of as his confinement in DeBryn’s spare room. Far larger than the Thursdays’, it had a full-sized bed, matching wardrobe, desk and bed tables, and a window overlooking a shady green yard. It was quiet and comfortable, and Morse found himself settling in with unexpected speed. He brought his turntable, some records and a case of books, but DeBryn had a generous collection of classical albums as well as several well-stocked bookshelves, and Morse found himself living more off them than his own.

For the first few days DeBryn stayed home with him, catching up on back issues of his journals and doing paper-work. He stayed until he was sure Morse had recovered himself – in both mind and body – and then returned to the Radcliffe leaving Morse alone to occupy himself. It wasn’t difficult. 

As the days went by, he found his energy diminishing further. Halfway through his seventh month he began sleeping in the day, napping for first an hour, then two. He spent his days mostly alone except for the record player and the cat, a tortoiseshell named Slip. Sometimes Thursday stopped by between casework; sometimes DeBryn came back for lunch. Mostly it was just comfort and silence, and he appreciated it.

The child began moving more, kicking and batting at his insides. Sometimes it was just an odd, tumbling feeling, other times uncomfortable or even painful. Once or twice he was caught hard in the diaphragm, winding him. 

He was with Thursday in DeBryn’s kitchen doing dishes the first time it happened. Thursday had dropped in on his way back to the station from a call out at Richardson’s supermarket, was leaning back against the cabinets smoking his pipe and filling Morse in on the case. He took pains to keep Morse up to date with the happenings in the CID; Morse appreciated it. The station, which he sometimes took for granted, wasn’t waiting for him. Things were happening there, cases advancing, familiar faces changing. Jakes, Thursday was saying, was likely to leave. Gotten an American in trouble, was looking to do the right thing.

Morse smiled with a wry mouth, but didn’t make any of the obvious comments. He felt more affected by the news than he would have thought, recognized that a fragile kind of friendship had grown up between himself and the sergeant – an understanding, at the least. He sighed, scrubbing at a plate. 

Still there was something familiar, comforting about the low rumble of Thursday’s voice and the smell of the pipe, like sitting by a blazing fire on a cold day being enveloped in its warmth. He was coming to appreciate it in a way he never had, feel its absence when it wasn’t there. 

He had his back to Thursday, rinsing a set of forks, when the kick caught him like a blow to his diaphragm. He groaned, dropping the forks with a clatter and doubling over. It was more shock than pain, his whole attention focused inwards while he gasped, trying to fill his lungs again.

The instant of shock passed and he found himself curled around his stomach, arms cradling the weight of his belly. And, behind him, Thursday holding him in an awkward embrace, his arms wrapped around Morse’s chest.

“Morse?” His breath was warm over Morse’s ear, voice soft with worry. Morse straightened and raised his hand to push Thursday’s arm away, but instead found himself holding the inspector’s wrist, leaning his head back against Thursday’s shoulder. 

He felt safe, sheltered from the weight the world had dropped on him. Thursday’s free hand slipped down, past his sternum to press against the swell of the child, light as a butterfly. _His child_ , Morse thought suddenly, face growing hot. Just as much as Morse’s, a son or daughter to be cradled, protected, loved.

“I’ve been so selfish,” he whispered, felt Thursday stiffening. “It’s as much yours as mine, and I’ve never given that a second thought.”

Thursday was silent for several heartbeats before speaking. “It’s you bearing the burden of it, Morse. And the risk. You’ve more than enough right. I doubt I could do it in your place.”

Morse took a deep breath. Letting go of Thursday he reached down and pulled up the hem of his shirt, showing the curve of pale skin flecked with freckles. Thursday’s hand hovered for an instant before lowering to press against him. As he did, Morse felt a surge of tenderness and protectiveness washed through him, warming him from head to toe. More than compassion or kindness, this was rawer, purer. An unyielding need to protect, defend.

Morse closed his eyes and allowed himself to rest against Thursday, encircled in his arms, head cushioned against his shoulder. “Would you stay? Just – for a few minutes.”

The tide of protectiveness, partnered with possessiveness and just the most fleeting memory of passion, was aching. “As long as you want, lad. As long as you want.”

***

Morse passed into his eight month in a haze of exhaustion. He was spending more than fourteen hours a day sleeping, and felt no more lively for it. The child continued to grow and he was resorting to draw-string trousers and loose un-tucked shirts, a look he despised.

He found his hand stopping to rest over his belly more often, seeking to calm the child when it was restless, taking a kind of comfort in its warm weight. He was starting to become curious about this tiny life, starting to want to know what it would grow into. 

Starting to want it.

As his own acceptance and interest grew, so too did his dread. For all that DeBryn was trying to reassure him about any potential surgery, he was beginning to fear the delivery – whatever it would look like – in earnest now. 

“The magic’s provided for everything else,” said DeBryn as they sat by the fireplace, the November evening cold and damp. “Why not believe it will provide for this too? And if it doesn’t, the surgery isn’t a complicated one, Morse. There’s little risk.”

Risk? No. Just lying in a hospital under the knife with a room full of strangers staring. He tensed to suppress the shudder. 

“Whatever happens, Morse, it will probably mean the hospital. This isn’t a simple procedure – not for you. I can’t take on the risk of it myself. You do know that?”

Morse gave him a stiff, tight nod. Like so much of late, he understood it. He was just hoping that somehow, it wouldn’t happen.

***

The larger he grew, the more uncomfortable the weight became. He could no longer sleep on his back, was forced to lie on his side. He napped often, waking for a while to stretch before returning to his bed. The child grew more active as he grew more exhausted, as though it were directly sapping his strength – perhaps it was. He could tell Thursday and DeBryn were worried by the amount of time he spent sleeping, but he couldn’t help it. And it wasn’t as though there was much else to keep him occupied with.

DeBryn was right about the magic, to Morse’s horror. As he passed slowly through the eighth month his hips and lower back began to ache with the shooting growing pains that he remembered from his youth. He found his balance starting to fail and realised his posture was shifting, his weight settling differently as he walked. DeBryn, when he finally gathered the courage to ask, examined his hip joints and spine carefully.

“I would say, Morse, that your pelvis is shifting. The pelvic bone is one of the main differentiators between the sexes; in men the pelvic inlet – the opening – is narrower, while in women it’s wider and less obstructed, to facilitate the passage of the infant. As it is normally, even forgetting the lack of necessary structures, a child couldn’t pass through your pelvis. Now…”

Morse watched him anxiously; he shrugged. “I couldn’t say. An x-ray would help determine it.”

An x-ray, which meant the hospital, and strangers. He shook his head. “No. As you said, there’s no point anyway. It’s not as though it could be born.”

“Alright. I would suggest hot baths and water bottles for the pain; tell me if it increases.”

***

It wasn’t, he discovered after a few days of blunt pain in his groin, the only change the magic brought. He founded first in the shower, the feel of the water trickling between his legs unusual – wrong. He blanched as his questing fingers found the reason for it, the new entrance tucked up behind his proper genitals.

He kept the secret for more than a week, shame burning his cheeks when he considered telling DeBryn – considered what that might entail.

In fact, when he finally nerved himself up to share the news, the doctor took it entirely in his stride. “Hardly any point in splaying your pelvis if there was to be no birth canal,” he said offhand. “Just mind you wash carefully, front to back, to avoid infection.”

“How can you take this so calmly?” asked Morse, genuinely surprised. The doctor shrugged.

“Morse, I autopsy unnatural deaths for a living. This is scarcely the strangest thing I’ve seen.”

***

“Do you wonder about the future?”

They were sitting in bed, Morse newly-woken and still warm with sleep, Thursday beside him atop the covers providing a shoulder to lean on. The lights were off, just the two of them in the damp autumn day.

“Didn’t used to when I was young. These days, yes – most days.” He slipped his hands beneath the cloth of Morse’s shirt to rest against warm skin; Morse took in a long breath against the ache of his tenderness, love. It wasn’t for him, and he worried if he didn’t keep reminding himself he might forget. Might grow used to this warmth. 

“The only time I’ve really looked forward to something was Oxford, and that was an escape more than anything. Having something like this – _wanting_ it… It’s so unfamiliar.” He smoothed to the blankets out over his legs, eyes downcast.

“And do you want it?” asked Thursday, carefully.

Morse paused, hands stilling. “It still frightens me,” he admitted. “But now… I’m beginning to think I think I do. I wonder what it would be like, to have this child. To hold a piece of myself.”

“Terrifying. And exhilarating,” said Thursday, honestly. “They’re such a vulnerable and fragile things, the whole of your heart exposed, defenceless. But when they reach for you, smile for you…” He shrugged, Morse could feel his love for his own children, thick and soft and warm. “It’s worth it.”

Morse passed his own hand over his curved stomach; felt a tiny movement within. “I’ve never had something to love. Not for long.” 

“You have it already, lad. It’s there inside you, waiting to be found. Waiting to be called.”

Morse slid a hand along to rest over Thursday’s, felt the steady burning flame of his care – no – love. It _was_ love – for the child nestled within Morse. And, perhaps a little, for the man who bore it. No; that was more than fruitless, that was cruelty and betrayal. He turned his thoughts away from such things. 

“Never stop loving it,” Morse said, softly. “No matter what.”

Thursday put an arm around his shoulders drawing him in close. “Never.”

Morse closed his eyes and let himself be held.

***

When the pains started – dull, rolling cramps – Morse took them to be yet another adjustment of his anatomy. They started one December morning and carried on through the day and into the evening. They weren’t intense enough to keep him from sleeping, and he dozed fitfully through the night.

At breakfast the next morning – scrambled eggs and toast for him, at DeBryn’s insistence – the pain was still present, but equally still manageable. 

“It’s the annual pathologist’s dinner tonight,” DeBryn informed, and Morse gave a wry smile.

“Sounds exhilarating,” he said, tone tinged with irony. DeBryn returned the smile. 

“We do take ourselves rather seriously. I’ll come home tonight to change, then head out again. I’ll leave you the telephone numbers.”

Morse nodded; DeBryn always did when going out these days.

The child seemed to be growing faster than ever; it was heavy inside him, his back and feet sore from bearing the weight. He seemed to be forever eating or in the bathroom, his innards squashed by its bulk. Mostly though, he slept, waking only for an hour or two here or there, otherwise curled up in bed, on the sofa, or in an armchair.

The cramping pains continued through his naps, and while he cooked and ate a light pasta dinner. DeBryn woke him to wish him good night, dressed in a suit and boil shirt. Morse nodded sleepily and fell back into his slumber.

***

It was dark when the pains woke him, intense compressions of his muscles. Morse jolted into wakefulness, groaning as he folded around the pain. He switched on the light and glanced at the clock. Just gone seven. DeBryn couldn’t have been gone more than an hour.

For several minutes he lay still, tensing as the waves of pain rolled over him. He could call DeBryn, call Thursday, call an ambulance. And if it were false alarm it would mean being trotted through the hospital for nothing. His first aid training had taught him most women – especially first time mothers – took hours if not days to deliver. He gritted his teeth and hunkered down: he could wait.

Three hours later, when attempts to sleep or walk off the pain hadn’t helped, he was beginning to feel at the end of his rope. The pain was intensifying, time between the agonizing contractions shortening. He was considering making the call when he felt a warm rush between his legs, pyjama trousers and bed sheets dampening instantly.

Not a false alarm.

He half-climbed, half-fell out of bed. The pains were lasting nearly half a minute, with only two minutes between them, and he felt shaky with the lingering pain. He left the trousers behind on the floor in a wet puddle and staggered out into the hall. Made it to the phone and collapsed straight down, feet splayed out to beneath him. He reached up onto the table with a shaky hand and found the pad of paper DeBryn had left with his number. 

He waited for the pain to pass, then pulled himself up onto his knees and dialled the number.

The phone rang several times before being answered by a loud, boisterous voice. “Hello?” 

“Max DeBryn,” he choked out.

“Pardon?” In the background Morse could hear laughter, music, the clinking of glasses. 

Morse took a deep, silent breath, eyes closed. “DeBryn. Max DeBryn. I need to speak with him.”

“Just a moment.”

He lent against the hall table, fingers tightening over the wooden edge as another spell of pain him. And another.

After an age, the braying voice on the phone returned. “Sorry – he’s been called out.”

“Called out?” gritted Morse, eyes pressed so tightly closed lights danced on his eyelids. “Where?”

“Couldn’t say. Ask the rozzers.” The line went dead and Morse dropped down with a gruff cry, curling up on the floor. He lay there panting deeply as time ticked by, waiting for his strength to return. He couldn’t concentrate on anything but the pain, couldn’t turn his mind from it. It was like heating coils being pushed down through his innards, white-hot and searing. 

Finally, panting, he pulled himself up again, dialling a number from the back of his mind.

“Cowley station; desk sergeant.”

“It’s Morse…. I need to get a message to Dr DeBryn.”

There was a long pause, wasting valuable pain-free seconds. Then: “Morse? Thought you were quarantined.”

“I am.” A contraction crested and he ground his jaw shut, doubling over. “DeBryn. Where is he?” he managed, very strained.

“Out on a call. Body in the Isis.”

“Is Thursday with him?”

“Yes,” replied the voice, in a tone that suggested it should have been self-evident

“Then radio him and tell him I called asking for DeBryn!” snarled Morse, fighting to keep his voice from becoming frantic.

“But –”

“ _Do it._ Please.” He put his hand over the microphone, gasping for breath. His palm was slick with sweat.

“Alright lad, don’t get tetchy.”

Morse dropped the receiver back into its cradle, toppling back against the wall with a cry. There was an intense pressure building between his legs, a weight driving down from within. The contractions felt ceaseless now, a constant barrage of rending pain. He tried to breathe through it, fingers scrabbling to find something to hold onto in the empty hallway. And still the pain grew worse, pressure like a cannonball bearing down from within him, crushing its way through him.

The ringing of the phone cut through his choked cries; he looked across at the table through wet eyes, arms wrapped around himself. It was four rings before he could find the strength to reach out for the phone, clumsy fingers finally closing around it in a desperate grip. 

“Morse?”

His head thudded back against the wall, eyes sliding shut. “ _Where – are – you?_ ” he gasped, rolling his head back with a cry as another wave of agony tore through him. He heard the answering words but couldn’t make sense of them, mind focused solely on surviving the pain. He couldn’t hold back the screams, not when the contractions reached their summit. 

“We’re coming, Morse – hold on – we’re coming,” he made out, and dropped the phone. He fell back onto the floor, pressure within him incredible, the need to push tearing through him. He was screaming now, the pain worse than any he’d known in his life – worse than being stabbed by Gull, worse than being shot. Worse than what the Necromancer had done to him in the heart of his evil wood. 

He lay on his back, legs spread, and pushed. Tried to push away the pain, the agony, the tearing sensation within him. For a minute it worsened and he thought he would tear apart, rip himself asunder and die there in DeBryn’s hall. But then he felt the slide of something slick and, a moment later, the pressure dropped hugely. Morse fell back, crying in pain and exultation. Triumph soared through him, so raw it burned, and with it a scorching protectiveness. He raised himself up on its strength, high enough to see past his own bloody form.

On the floor between his knees, a tiny reddened body shuddered, then gave a little mewling cry. A tidal wave of strength and joy pounded over him and he reached down to pick up the wrinkled form and bring it up to lie on his chest. He wiped the moisture from its tiny nose and mouth, his eyes blurring in exhaustion. This was what he had been waiting for, what he had been anticipating – what he had begun in a careful way to yearn for. He gave a weak smile as he brushed his thumb over the infant’s face, feeling his joy backing into a warmer, softer love.

The contractions hadn’t stopped, though, were still working to push more from him. He glanced down to see a pool of blood and liquid between his legs, then the beginnings of a dark red glistening mess. He stared in a dizzy kind of horror: had he truly been ripped apart within, was this his own innards sliding from him? He felt a cold swell of nausea rise in him, world spinning as his head fell back onto the floor. Morse groaned, still holding the crying child tightly to him.

Somewhere in the distance a door slammed and then there was the sound of voices shouting. The world was growing dark, his vision failing. He saw movement as a bulky form dropped down beside him, reaching out to pull him up into its arms. He tried to speak but couldn’t find the strength, and fell into darkness with the sound of his own name ringing in his ears.

***

He dreamt he was running, thrashing through a dark forest with hounds baying behind him as they ate up his footsteps, growing ever closer. He ran as his lungs burned and his muscles shook, ran through the grasping underbrush and the branches that whipped at his face.

He needed to reach the stones. If he could reach the stones, everything would be well, he would be safe.

He broke out of the forest onto a green field, the dogs so close now he could hear the froth of their spittle in their fanged mouths. He sprinted out, without looking back, and saw the stones ahead. 

He was so close – almost there – when the first dog leapt. 

In the distance a gun fired; the dog fell. Morse saw a figure on the edge of the field, dark clothes and a hat, holding a gun. He didn’t spare the time for a second glance.

Panting, gasping for breath, Morse fell through the two tall standing stones and into the circle. He dropped onto his stomach and lay in the long, cool grass. Felt the sunshine warm on his back, smelled dandelions and clover. 

He was safe. Here, he was safe.

***

Morse woke slowly, feeling dull and lethargic. He was somewhere dark and warm, wrapped up tightly and carefully in a warm bundle. He opened heavy eyes and looked around: white screens, white sheets, white walls. A hospital.

Beside him in an uncomfortable-looking chair Fred Thursday was asleep with his head canted back against the chair-back, snoring softly. His hand was resting on the bed beside Morse’s arm, fingers relaxed with sleep. His face still showed signs of worry, a pinched look on it even now; Morse wondered what he was dreaming of. 

It was evening, the curtains in the ward drawn, the lights dim. Morse tried to move and found himself exhausted, his hips and groin aching dully. The memory of DeBryn’s front hall flashed through his mind and he frowned – it felt much closer to dream than reality. But his stomach was no longer swollen, the covers lying bulky but flat over him; an electric blanket had been added he saw, lifting the top-most. 

Slowly, carefully, Morse pulled his hand free and laid it on the side of Thursday’s, and felt hardly anything. Hospital, he thought. Delphathol. There was a needle in the back of his hand, IV tube running to a steel tree beside the bed. Over his head a row of charms had been hung; they had an eclectic, mismatched look to them that made him doubt they were hospital-issue. 

Beside him Thursday took a deep breath, head rolling to the side. His eyes slid opened and he straightened, stretching his neck with a wince. 

Then he looked to the side and saw Morse.

The rush of joy and relief was strong enough for Morse to feel, even with the drugs. It warmed his own heart, and he felt himself smiling weakly. “Hullo,” he said, softly.

For a moment, Morse thought Thursday was going to embrace him.

Instead, he started crying. Quiet, thick tears that ran down his cheeks to his lips, turning his skin ruddy. He pulled out his handkerchief and wiped angrily at them, never letting go of Morse’s hand. 

“Fred?” he whispered, suddenly afraid.

“You stay here with me, Endeavour Morse,” he said fiercely, eyes red. “Don’t you damn well go anywhere.”

Morse shook his head slowly. “I won’t.” He felt tired but not on the edge of collapse, not so weak that he might fail. “What’s happened?”

“You expelled everything along with the child – womb, canal, all of it. Lost too much blood all at once. You’ll be alright now; they were giving you transfusions all last night.”

“The child?”

For the first time, some of the darkness disappeared from Thursday’s face; he smiled gently. “A little girl. Win and the kids are minding her; she’s good as gold. You’ll have to come up with a name for her.”

Morse stared. “That’s something for you and Win, surely. She’s yours now, your daughter.” It felt… odd, to say it. Lonely, somehow, like an empty room. 

Thursday leant forwards, taking his hand in a firm grip. “A part of her will always be yours. You’ll do this for her; we’ve agreed on it. A starting gift for her.”

Morse let his breath out slowly, resting back against the pillow. “I’ll have to see her,” he said, remembering only the warm weight of her on his chest, the joy running through his veins.

“You will.”

***

He was released from the hospital the next day on orders for several days of bedrest, no activity or worry. Thursday took him back in the Jag wearing, for the first time in months, some proper clothes. He had still held onto some extra weight, stretch marks running over his stomach that might never fade, but his trousers were wearable again and he rejoiced in that.

He had expected Thursday to take him back to DeBryn’s but instead they headed further south. “Fred?”

“Win won’t stand for your not stopping by for a visit, Morse. I’ll get you back to DeBryn’s when you’re tired.”

Morse opened then closed his mouth. He was nervous, he found, and wondered at it. Nervous to see his own child. 

Thursday parked the Jag and came around to help him out, as though he were an invalid. He brushed off Thursday’s supportive arm; he was still sore and tired, but not shaky on his feet. He proceeded Thursday up the path, stopping at the door to look back over his shoulder.

“Go on then,” said Thursday softly, and he knocked on the door.

Win opened it almost immediately, eyes tearing up at the sight of him. She drew him into an embrace as he crossed the threshold, one hand feathering through his hair. “Oh love, we’ve been so worried for you. Are you alright?”

He nodded, managing a thin smile. Behind her Sam appeared and he froze, but the lad gave him a lopsided smile and he unwound a hair.

Win took him through to the den, put him down on the sofa and tucked a knitted blanket over his knees. He was just trying to find a tactful way of pushing it off – the room was already sweltering – when Joan entered with Thursday behind her and all thoughts of the blanket disappeared from his mind.

She was holding a little bundle in her arms, a pink form tightly swaddled in a flannel blanket. The infant was asleep, a tiny puckered frown on her lips. Joan smiled at him, bringing the bundle over and making to hand it to him. He leaned back, raising his hands repressively.

“No – I don’t know how…”

“Then you’re about to learn, aren’t you?” She sat down beside him and gave him the baby before he could protest further, resting her in the crook of his arm. “Just keep the head supported and you’ll be fine.”

He stared down at the little face, rubbing his thumb over her cheek. Babies felt nothing for the first few months of life, he knew that to be true and didn’t worry when he read nothing from her. 

What he hadn’t expected was the rush of sentiment _he_ felt, love and joy and protectiveness. This little life was his, something for him to watch over and love. She sighed, and Morse felt his heart contract almost painfully. 

“She’ll need a name, dear,” said Win softly, and he looked up to find the Thursday family watching him, Thursday with his arm over his wife’s shoulder but with eyes only for the child. 

“I have one already,” he said shyly, “although I don’t know that you would care for it.” He looked back down to the child – his child. It was only trust that had brought him this far, and trust that would keep them all going. 

“Faith,” he whispered. And then again, louder, “Faith.”


	5. CHAPTER 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ALL THE EXPOSITION.
> 
> Finally we make it to Inspector Morse!

“How was it, then? Quarantine?” asked the newly-minted Sergeant Strange, as Morse settled back into his desk, opening the drawers to assess how much had been casually thieved over his absence. It was odd, having Strange there at Jakes’ desk, wearing a worsted suit that seemed to emphasize his bulk rather than disguise it.

“Quiet,” answered Morse, tracing the line of his jaw. His hands had been too shaky to shave for the first few days after the hospital, and he was still revelling in the smoothness. “I mostly slept,” he added, when Strange failed to look satisfied. “I see things have changed around here. Congratulations, by the way.”

Strange puffed up proud as a pigeon, but his smile was self-conscious. “Thanks, mate. It was mostly down to chance, you know. It will be a breeze for you.” Morse shrugged, suddenly awkward. He had missed the exam three times now; he might have been a sergeant years ago if not for fate’s intervention.

New as it was to Morse, Strange had been Thursday’s sergeant for months now and was already settled into his new role. Resuming his position under Strange felt uncomfortable, as though he were wearing another man’s clothes; for the first time felt left behind.

He had little time to worry about station politics, however. While the changes in the station surprised him, the changes he found in himself shocked him far more. He was twitchy, restless, a burning anxiety always present in his chest pressing out against his ribs. Some days it was so strong he found it hard to breathe, a pressure he couldn’t overcome with drink, or even the cigarettes he briefly started smoking. Bringing the concentration he needed to the cases dropped on his plate was suddenly difficult in a way he had never experienced or anticipated. His whole life he had had an intense singularity of purpose, had never had to work at finding or directing it.

Now he found that, while he still had it; it was simply not focused on his work. Somehow, without his thinking or realising it, it had become focused on his heart. 

The only time he felt truly whole and happy was sitting on the Thursday’s sofa, Faith nestled in his arms. Her presence brought him a kind of joy he had never predicted, never expected for himself. It was stronger than contentment or satisfaction, its molten heat soaked into the marrow of his bones to keep him warm whenever he was near her. 

When she was unsettled, hungry or anxious, he felt it like cold fingers twisting in his guts. Her unhappiness transferred to him without touch or even proximity so that he felt her jolts of discontent at his desk, driving Thursday home, or lying alone in bed at night. The unpredictable battering of her moods and unmet needs was exhausting, kept him on edge day and night so he started to look as worn-out as Thursday who had Faith’s tears to keep him awake. 

He spoke to DeBryn about it early after he started work, after a mild fever of hers kept him awake two nights with restless fretting, too keyed up and on edge to make himself lie still for more than two minutes together.

“It’s me. Or her. Or the both of us,” he said, when the doctor looked up from the forms he was filling out to ask what was wrong. He was perched on the edge of the visitor’s chair, picking unceasingly at his nails. DeBryn pushed his glasses up on his nose, looking through them quizzically.

“Inspector Thursday seems to think she’s doing fine. And you’ve yet to drop her. A success all around, from what I hear.” But he folded his hands and sat stilly, a bastion of calm as he waited patiently for Morse to continue.

“I can hardly sleep, can’t eat, can’t even sit still when she’s upset or ill. I’ve been up for almost three days, Max – I should be exhausted but I feel as though I’ve been plugged into a battery, like a current’s running through me.” He gestured irritably, feeling the damp press of his shirt against his side. He couldn’t remember when he’d last changed, showered, eaten. 

DeBryn nodded slowly, leaning down to open his desk drawer and produce a book. “I _did_ consult some of my literature prior to the birth; needed to ensure there would be no abnormalities to expect from your empathy. I found nothing unexpected on that topic, but I did note the strong bond sun-touched form with their children. Perfectly natural and lasts through the first dozen or so years of life, fading incrementally. It’s strongest in the first year of life, when the child is at its most helpless. Did your – your parents never tell you?” he asked, faltering for the first time. He and Morse had never discussed his genealogy. 

Morse shook his head slowly. Had it been like this for his mother? Such anxiety, such franticness at every discomfort, every tantrum of his? She had never said; just another aspect of her life they had never discussed. Just another secret between them. 

“Thank you,” he said and slipped out, vaguely embarrassed by his own lack of knowledge. His heart begged him return to the Thursday’s, but he forced himself to go home instead; put a cool cloth over his eyes and tried to relax. 

He was conscious of giving the Thursday’s the space they needed to make this child theirs, despite the aching need in his chest. He kept his visits to two nights a week, and otherwise left the Thursdays to themselves. Joan and Sam had decorated the spare room before Sam left for the army, painting the walls a cheery yellow and redone all of the trim in white. A crib had been found and a dresser and shelves for the clothes, books, and toys. Morse brought what he could, but with his coffers emptied by three months’ half pay, most everything came second-hand from friends of Win and Joan. He vowed to sit the Sergeant’s exam at the earliest opportunity, motivated as he never had been before to achieve the raise as well as the rank.

***

“It’ll mean leaving,” Thursday told him one evening, as they sat together on the sofa. He was dangling a soft toy over Faith’s face, an octopus with long colourful tendrils. She gurgled happily, eyes almost focusing. Her hearing was sharpening by the day, and soon she would be able to see with near-normal acuity. “I can’t keep two sergeants under me, and Strange has seniority.”

Morse nodded slowly, stiffly. It was a wrench, but not a surprise. “I know,” he said. “But there must be other open positions, other sergeants slots open somewhere in the county.”

Thursday rubbed at the bridge of his nose, looking tired. He looked constantly drawn these days, and sometimes Morse felt a tinge of guilt for bringing a third child into his life so late. 

“You’re not supposed to know it,” Thursday said, dropping his hand away, “but McNutt’s sergeant is putting in for retirement. He’ll be gone in a few months; you could apply for that position. I’ve spoken to McNutt about you before, he knows my opinion of you. You’ve a fair few cases under your belt, and you’ll have time for another one or two before that. Mr Bright would be hard-pressed to accept an external candidate.”

McNutt? He knew the man, had overlapped with a few of his investigations. Morse had found him steady, bright, and honest. He had none of Thursday’s passion, the driving need to do right by those they served. But of all of the station’s inspectors, Morse thought he was probably the most suited to Morse’s style.

“I’ll speak to McNutt,” promised Thursday. “Tell him you’re sitting your Sergeant’s, and are looking for a position. Assuming you pass, all you need do is put your name into the hat.”

Morse drew a soft thumb across Faith’s cheek. She stared up at him, blue eyes curved with pleasure. “Thank you,” he said softly.

Thursday grasped his shoulder. “It’ll all work out.”

***

For perhaps the first time in his life, it did. Morse sat the Sergeant’s exam, and found after two years of dread, he had had nothing to worry about. He finished nearly an hour before most of the other candidates, and spent the extra time reading the paper. Having passed the exam with flying colours and with top marks at the firing range, even Bright could find no flaws in his application for McNutt’s recently vacated bagman.

Morse moved to his desk to the other side of the CID incident room to be closer to his new superior, aware of Thursday’s eyes on his back as he carried his box over. They were no longer inspector and bagman, and for a few hours Morse felt a tight choking sensation in his throat when he thought about what he was leaving. But he and Thursday would never be strangers to each other, were if anything more closely connected now than ever. It was time to make a new start, one that would support his family.

***

Working with McNutt showed up once again all his rough edges. The mannerisms Thursday had put up with, the liberties he had allowed were not ones McNutt was prepared to let go, at least not at first. He listened to Morse’s theories, his leaps of faith, but he refused to act without evidence or to allow Morse to. Unlike Thursday, he couldn’t use the evidence of his senses to his advantage, had to perform his readings surreptitiously and find logical explanations to raise any flags he found.

It was more exhausting than he remembered it being; he had forgotten how valuable it was to have a superior who knew and trusted not only his instincts but his senses. But McNutt was kind in his way, an open man who like Thursday invited him into his home. McNutt’s wife was a lovely woman – she was blossoming in a kind of second youth and her fair skin and pale hair gave her a China doll appearance. She had a careful way of speaking and walking which gave Morse the impression of frailty, although he never spoke of it and certainly McNutt never raised it.

Morse watched Thursday and Strange from across the incident room, but he no longer had the time to stay at work until all hours, checking over Thursday’s cases for any assistance he could provide. He realized, as he never had before, the trespass that would be. The insult. 

He kept away from Thursday and Strange, and concentrated on his own work.

***

In the summer as Faith’s eyes were changing from blue to brown, Joan left. She was tired of the bank, she explained to her parents and Morse, tired of Oxford. Tired of the stagnant life that seemed to bring her no opportunities. It had nothing to do with Morse, or Faith, she was very clear to state. But Oxford was entirely town and gown, and for all she was interested in settling down, she had seen enough of the colleges’ pretentious students, and Cowley’s sweat-stained workmen. She wanted something more, she wanted happiness.

Thursday and Win took it better than Morse could have expected. Joan had always been so dear to them, dear to Thursday in particular. But now they had a second daughter to occupy them, to distract from the sting of the first’s departure. There were hugs and kisses and tears, but in the end Joan boarded the train, and was gone.

Without her the Thursdays’ lives crystalized around Faith in a way they hadn’t quite before, the two of them spending all their love and attention on her. Morse began to feel he was watching their lives from the outside again, began to feel on the edge of their tenderness and care. It was the way it should be, the way it had to be. So he told himself.

***

In ‘69 he was sent up north to Blackpool, entered into a police debate. Faith was nearly two; even from across the country, he could feel the discomfort of her teething, the answering ache in his chest when she was too restless to sleep at night. She was still unsteady on her feet, but old enough to toddle around and starting to get into mischief. He hoped she wasn’t giving Win too much grief.

Morse had never been in a public debate before an audience before, although the mustering of arguments and quick rebuttals was hardly different from his Oxford days. He found the development of a case interesting and something he excelled at, however presentation with something else. Public speaking had never been a talent of his, and he lost the debate. 

He brought sticks of Blackpool rock back for the family, and a pretty little periwinkle-blue dress for Faith; he knew from his own colouring that it would go well with her auburn hair. When he returned from the weeklong trip, the longest time he spent away from Oxford in years, Faith toddled right up to him, her arms held open to be picked up. He scooped her up and tickled her until she shrieked, wondering how he had ever gotten by without her.

***

Faith was nearly three when Morse, returning from a call out to Magdalen College, felt the itchy, uncomfortable feeling in his chest: Faith. He tightened his hands on the wheel, her discomfort had been affecting him less as she grew towards her third year, only light pangs corresponding to her toddler tantrums. He kept driving, heading back to the station, but the tightness in his chest grew more acute, his shoulders beginning to curve inwards against it. At the next street light he took a left, pointing the Jag towards the Thursday home.

He saw the smoke before he turned down the street and gunned the engine, pedestrians turning to look. But he shot by them, heart racing now, and was out the door before the engine finished cutting out.

Flames were licking up the curtains in the dining room, black smoke rising from the back of the house. Win was near the front door, fighting with two young men who were trying to drag her away. “She’s still inside – my daughter – let me go, she’s in there –”

Morse shoved his way through the crowd, reached the front and grabbed Win’s elbow. She looked up at him, eyes wild. “It’s locked – the back’s aflame – I can’t get in.”

He didn’t wait to hear more. Pushed her back, took a few steps forwards, and kicked it in the door. It collapsed inwards and oxygen-starved flames surged out, hot and hungry. They died back after a moment to lick once again at the carpet and Morse ran in.

The inside of the house was an inferno. The kitchen was blazing high – the source of the fire, most likely – and the flames had spread quickly and viciously over the old carpet. The stairs were going up, carpet there already smouldering and banisters smoking. Morse ran through the flames, felt the heat singeing his ankles as he pounded up the steps.

Upstairs was full of black smoke; his eyes stung and his throat burned as he came out onto the landing. He threw open the door into Faith’s bedroom and ran in bent low, arm over his mouth.

She was curled in the corner under the quilt Win had made for her for her first birthday, face red with tears. He ran over and scooped her up, kissing the crown of her head and nestling her face against his shoulder. “It’s alright, you’re alright,” he muttered, turning to stare at the red blaze outside of the door. He was sweating with the heat, squinting through the acrid smoke. Over the crackle of flames he thought he heard someone calling his name, but it could easily have been his imagination.

He stepped out into the hall, hand over Faith’s neck and head to shelter her from the heat. The stairs were a sea of flames, impassable. He retreated down the hall to the back of the house.

The smoke was thicker here but the raw heat of the fire was lessened, floorboards smouldering but not yet aflame. He pushed open the door to Sam’s old room and ducked in, shutting it behind him.

A thick curtain of smoke was rising from the kitchen windows, blanketing the back of the house in blackness. He peered out the window and saw below him the steeped roof that covered the back door, just a tiny suggestion of the porch. Smoke was funneling out from under it, but he saw no red tongues licking through the wood.

Morse opened the window, feeling the heat at his back increase. Faith was howling in his arms, terrified.

He raised himself up to sit on the window frame, pulling his legs through until he was looking out over the back garden. He wrapped his arms tightly around Faith, and pushed away from the ledge.

What he expected was a three-foot drop to the wooden awning over the door. In fact, he hit the awning and fell right through, rotten wood giving away in a burst of flames. He fell a further eight feet onto the cement below, left leg collapsing under him with a bright crack of pain and dropping him onto his back.

He lay for a second and writhing in agony atop the burnings spars and slats, then pulled himself away far enough to push Faith from his arms.

She toppled down crying beside him; he lifted her back onto her feet. “Go to the shed – Dad’s shed,” he gasped, pushing her away. “Go on, go.” His leg was white-hot with pain that stabbed through him with each movement. He kicked off the burning wood with his good leg, pushing Faith away. “ _Go_ , Faith.”

Still howling, she turned on short legs and tottered towards the shed, head thrown back to voice her sobs. Morse tried to pull himself further from the house, caught his leg on the corner of the cement stoop, and screamed.

“Morse?!”

He turned to watch a crowd of men, among them Thursday, Strange, and several firemen, round the side of the house. One peeled off after Faith, the rest came after him. He was lifted between them like a featherweight and carried away. Thursday appeared at his side holding Faith, her little form tiny against his broad chest. He reached out and grabbed Morse’s hand, just for an instant: intense relief, gratitude, pride. Love.

Morse closed his eyes and, for a little while, concentrated solely on the pain.

***

It was only later in the hospital he found out what had happened. How the fat in a chip hand had caught fire in the kitchen while Win was in the yard spraying the roses, how it had spread voraciously through the kitchen and ground floor before she noticed and kept her from getting to Faith. How Thursday and Strange had gotten the call and arrived to find Win frantic and Morse already inside, trapped by the flames.

“It’s a wonder you’ve not already stopped my heart,” said Thursday, sitting in the plastic-mould chair beside his bed. “You seem to take more years off every year; it’s not a pattern I like Morse.”

“I don’t do it on purpose,” protested Morse irritably. “It’s not as though I had a choice.” He fell silent, staring at the ceiling. “I didn’t think twice,” he said more quietly, fingers tensing over the edge of the blanket. “I didn’t think at all. I just – needed to get to her.”

Thursday took his hand, all soft compassion and understanding. “That’s the way it’s supposed to be, Morse. You do what you need to to protect your own.”

Morse closed his eyes, but kept hold of Thursday’s hand.

“What will you do now? I would look after Faith, but I’ll be in a cast for weeks yet…”

“The house was insured; inspection says it’s unsalvageable. We’ll have to find somewhere new. Don’t need all that space anyhow with Sam and Joan gone. New start.”

Morse nodded. “I’ll help – whatever you need.”

Thursday pressed his hand. “I know. Thank you.”

***

Mary Lapsley wasn’t the first missing child case Morse had worked since Faith was born – that dubious honour fell to Dorothy Krupps, whose case also marked the first time McNutt had had to order him home on threat of suspension to keep him from collapsing due to exhaustion.

Dorothy Krupps had been found three weeks later in a youth hostel in Brighton. 

Morse found Mary Lapsley in a boathouse, curled up on the wooden boards like a sack of potatoes.

There hadn’t been any reason to suspect her of being in the boathouse, or even near the river. She’d only been taken a handful of times by school friends’ parents – an orphan, she lived with her maternal grandmother who didn’t get out much. But she hadn’t been found anywhere more likely, and the police were beginning to clutch at straws. Only twelve and shy for her age, no one thought her a likely candidate for a runaway. Which left very few possibilities, none of them pleasant. 

An early-morning mist lay thick on the river when he arrived, the boathouse’s timbers dark with moisture. The door was unlocked and Morse pulled it open easily, torch in hand. At first glance he mistook the body for a heap of tarpaulin left lying on the floor. Then he saw the blood glint in the yellow torchlight. 

Sick, swirling horror rose in him as he stumbled over, icy claws of dread rending his innards. There was blood on her dress, the front of it in tatters. Her face was grey, eyes closed. 

Dead. 

He found himself on his knees by her body without noticing the fall, throat so tight he had to struggle to pull in breathes. He couldn’t look away from her still form. Couldn’t stop seeing Faith there in her place.

Somehow he got himself out of the boathouse, made it up to his car and patched into the radio to report his finding. 

DeBryn and the crime squad made it there before Hillian and Dawson, were already swarming thick over the place like wasps to a nest when the DCI and his DS arrived. Morse, standing outside, watched them push their way in. And then saw Dawson come out, white-faced and tense as a bow-string. Morse thought he might faint.

“Dawson?” He drew up beside Dawson and making to take his elbow. The man swung around like a mad dog and struck Morse’s hand away. In the instant of contact Morse caught a jolt of anguish so strong it staggered him and he fell away, wincing. 

“Let me be,” snapped Dawson and turned, striding hurriedly away. Morse stared after him, shocked and full of pity. 

McNutt sent him home early that day, but he knew without trying that he couldn’t be alone; not with the image of the girl’s body in his mind, not with Dawson’s grief and rage wrestling for supremacy with his own emotions. 

Faith ran up to meet him when Win opened the door, but she saw the look on his face and picked up the little girl, stepping aside. “Fred’s still out,” she said quietly. He nodded and stepped past her to the den, sinking down on the sofa. Rested his elbows on his knees and rubbed at the dull ache in his temples. 

Faith came in again after a while, Win busy in the kitchen, and he picked her up absently to sit on his knee, bouncing her up and down as though on a horse. She still had some of her baby fat, her cheeks plump with it, but she was growing longer and leaner by the day – already came up to his hip. How long would it be before she started turning heads, before the boys at school took an interest? Before the evil, cruel men in the world began to notice her?

He was still wondering when he heard the front door open and close, and Win and Thursday’s low voices in the hall. Thursday appeared a moment later in the doorway, looking down at him. “Mary Lapsley. I heard,” he said gently, and Morse nodded. Thursday picked Faith up, setting her down on the carpet with a wooden set of train tracks, and sat down beside him. 

“How do you do it? Just… forget? Put it behind you?” Morse asked, voice raw. And then, more quietly, “How do you know it won’t happen to her?” 

Thursday reached out to take Morse’s wrist in a warm, comfortable grip: _sympathy/pity/sorrow_. “You tell yourself that if you don’t leave it behind, you’ll lose her. And you do everything you can to keep her safe.” His grip shifted, _loneliness/loss_ leaking in, and Morse knew he was thinking about Joan, busy with her new life and hardly with the time to write or call. 

He looked down at Faith, carefully stacking wooden blocks together to build a tower, her tongue caught between her teeth as she concentrated. Unconsciously he folded back against Thursday, let the older man flood him with compassion and sympathy. 

He considered telling Thursday he suspected Dawson of being Mary Lapsley’s father, of what he had read from the man. But Thursday would have Dawson taken off the case, and that would disgrace him all the further. Morse considered what he would want, if it were him. And he closed his mouth. 

That night, alone in his flat, he went through his drawers until he found the old box beside the one containing his mother’s pendant. In the second box lay the larger, iron circle carefully wrapped in soft leather. He unfolded the leather and brushed his fingers against it, felt the lingering tenderness, love. 

Slowly, almost guiltily, he slipped it into his hand and took it with him to bed. Fell asleep, and dreamed that he was somewhere warm and peaceful, tucked up tight in a gentle embrace.

***

Morse was there, watching from the kerb the day Faith started school, Win walking her over dressed in a blue corduroy dress Morse had bought for her. Win waited in the playground with the rest of the parents while the children flocked together, then were herded into the building by a pair of teachers.

Turning to go, she caught sight of Morse getting into his car and made a bee-line for him. He stopped, straightening and waiting for her. 

“She’ll do fine, love. She’s already farther along with her letters than most of the others.” She laid a hand on his arm. “You should be proud of her.”

Morse blinked. “I am. But it’s you who should be.”

“Oh Morse, you’re raising her almost as much as us. You’ll see her through school – Fred and I were never much help to Joan and Sam there; we could love them, but school had never been anything more than a necessary evil to us. It can be more to her, if you help her.”

“You know I will, Win.”

***

Fred Thursday retired the same year. They rented a hall and had a proper party – this one unmarred by murder, unlike his 25th anniversary.

Joan and Sam came, Sam in his uniform and Joan with her fiancé, an up-and-coming journalist with _The Guardian_. They helped Morse and Strange decorate the hall with streamers and balloons, and the banner out of the station basement which Morse assumed was frequently re-used, _Happy Retirement!_

There were speeches and cake and sparkling wine. Morse sat at one of the tables with Faith on his lap, carefully supervising her consumption of sticky-toffee-pudding and receiving a range of updates on school, her friends, and the puppy she dearly wanted. He watched Thursday making the rounds, shaking hands, stopping to talk with old friends and colleagues, introducing newer ones to Win. He smiled, and then looked down when Faith tugged at his elbow to draw his attention to the way she had managed to make her fork stand up in the pudding. 

“You’re very good with children, sergeant. Hoping for some of your own?” asked McNutt kindly, appearing out of the crowd. 

Morse felt a sudden cold lurch in his stomach; it must have showed on his face because McNutt lost his smile. “I’m sorry Morse – I didn’t mean –”

“It’s fine,” Morse reassured him, managing a faint smile of his own. But he didn’t answer further; anything he said would be a lie, and he couldn’t bear that. Not with his daughter in his lap.

He looked up to see Thursday watching him from across the room, eyes soft as he glanced at Faith. And then back to Morse with the same expression. Morse felt his chest tighten and turned back to the little girl, listening to her re-telling of her newest book.

***

There was more, so much more. Birthdays, school prizes, music recitals. Morse didn’t have time for all of it, and with Thursday retired some of the pressure to attend eased off, but he made as many milestones as he could. And he still came by for dinner two nights a week as ever, reading to Faith, then quizzing her on her figures, then helping her with her history and literature as she grew.

Somehow, Morse’s life came to revolve around her. His attempts to find a partner to share his life all seemed destined for failure, and even if he could find someone to love how could he expect her to understand all his secrets – could he even share them? He settled for briefer, more physical romances and left love for his family. 

Faith grew up straight and fair and pretty, while Fred and Win aged and Morse’s hair turned suddenly, surprisingly white when he hit forty. Sam married, Joan bore a son, the Thursday family expanding while Morse’s remained unchanging. When Faith was ten and the Thursdays beginning to inch towards 70 – a good 30 years older than most of her friends’ parent – they told her they had taken her in at birth from a family who couldn’t raise her, that they would always be her parents and there was no more to it than that. 

Morse passed his inspector’s exam and took McNutt’s place the year the inspector’s wife died, finally reaching the rank that had always seemed best-suited to him. He bought a house near the Thursdays and, to mend his sometimes-aching heart, a bright red Model II Jag. 

Faith graduated from her primary school to a grammar school – at Morse’s insistence, backed by her grades – and started wearing a skirt that seemed only to grow shorter as the years went by. Morse and Thursday spent some evenings together lamenting it, only to be broken up by a half-irritated, half-amused Win and sent to bed.

On damp evenings, his once-broken leg began aching, a dull reminder of bone that had not knitted together perfectly. He soaked it in warm water, ignoring the shiny reddened patches of scar tissue; they had never bothered him. Only the memory of the flames did, of what he might have lost.

Sometimes, on the worst nights, he took the pendant to bed with him.

***

It was a warm summer afternoon and Morse was driving along the riverbank on his way back to the station to rendezvous with his new bagman. Having a permanent bagman might prove useful in some ways, but until he managed to get Lewis broken in it seemed the man might be more trouble than help.

He was about to turn on his way to Cowley when he noticed a young couple ahead of him. It was Faith he recognized first, auburn hair twisted up and her school skirt rolled high to show more leg. The young man he recognized a moment later – Henry Carter, in and out of Cowley Station on drugs charges. 

He pushed his foot down on the throttle and the Jag roared ahead; he pulled up alongside them and rolled down his window. “Faith,” he called, and saw her turn. Carter turned as well, and recognized either him or the Jag; he backed away a step. “Time for dinner soon, isn’t it? I’ll run you home.”

She stared at Morse, half-embarrassed, half-angry, blushing red. “I’ll be home in time,” she answered curtly, turning away. 

“I think you should come along now,” he said, more sternly. Carter was already walking away; she turned to look at him, face a mix of anguish and anger. Her face was very red now, hands fisting. 

“I’m fine; just leave me alone,” she said to the kerb.

“Faith –”

“No,” she snapped, flaring up. She spun around, eyes shining angrily. It was an expression he had seen often enough in himself: furious outrage. “Leave me alone. You can’t tell me what to do – you’re not family!” She turned on her heel – in the opposite direction from Carter – and stalked off. 

Morse sat staring after her, Jag idling on the roadside. He felt as though an icy knife had been stabbed into his gut: a cold, cutting pain. It radiated outwards in a whole-body ache that left him tense and cramped behind the wheel. His heart was racing sickly, making him dizzy with its frenzied rhythm.

Eventually he managed to pull himself together enough to get the Jag back on the road, head for home. He forgot entirely about Lewis and sequestered himself in his house, pulling out a bottle of scotch and pouring himself a generous glass.

***

It was hours later that Thursday called, quiet and sombre. “Morse,” he said; Morse grunted. “She didn’t mean it, Morse. She’s upstairs crying her eyes out – seems she thought the bastard meant to ask her out, when all he wanted was to push something on her. Then you showed up right when she was feeling a complete fool and elbowed your way in.”

“I didn’t,” protested Morse softly, leaning his head against the wall over the phone, eyes closed. 

“Not how she saw it. She wants to apologize to you.”

“Does she? Or are you making her?”

There was a moment of silence, and then Thursday’s voice came through, short and irritated. “Straighten up and pay some goddamn attention, Morse: teenagers rebel against authority, they push back, they fight it. We had a year of rows with Sam before he got through it. That’s all this is – it doesn’t mean anything.”

“She’s right,” said Morse, running a hand under his collar. “I’m nothing to her – why should I be? Just some stuffy old friend who –”

“You can stop that right now, Endeavour Morse. If you’re going to sulk, we might as well have this conversation another time. You know damn well she loves you, and we both know how much she means to you.” There was a beat, and then: “We ought to tell her. She’s old enough.”

Morse felt a cold chill run through him in spite of the alcohol, making him shiver. “We can’t, she’ll –”

“She deserves to know. _Yo_ u deserve for her to know.”

“Fred please, I can’t – she’ll –”

“She’s bright, and kind. She can understand, and she will. It’s time she knew. Time you could be to her what you deserve to be. Come over tomorrow after dinner. We can talk. And lay off the drink.” He sounded absolute, clear in his resolution. Morse shuddered. 

Living this awkward half-life was still better, infinitely better, than losing Faith. Than having her turn away from him in disgust or disappointment. But before he could muster his arguments there was a click and the line went dead. Morse lowered the receiver to stare at it before slamming it down. 

Fred Fucking Thursday, he thought, and went to pour another glass.


	6. CHAPTER 5

There seemed to be no end to the irritations and aggrevations of the following day. Strange was on the warpath over mislaid paperwork, insisting Morse turn over his office if necessary to find it or else redo it himself. The canteen water heater boiled itself dry, taking with it any hope of tea. Lewis, with all the exuberance of a puppy, was constantly on him to be dashing about here and there after clues and interviewing witnesses to pull together their current case. 

Morse wanted solely to be left alone to wallow in his dread and anxiety. He ignored Strange, snapped at the constable who stopped by to deliver the news about the tea, and rowed with Lewis, in the end sending the sergeant home early just to be rid of him. He left himself not much later, knowing himself not to be fit for anything more. 

Morse ate at his own home, a very light meal – his stomach was tied in knots, angry and churning. He cleaned the house to fill the time, tidying away his books and doing his washing up. Thinking about what to say – how he could possibly convince Faith that everything would be alright – only made him more anxious and maudlin. When he found himself weeding out half his tape collection in disgust at poor decisions in orchestration or lack of strength in the attack in single lines he finally took himself in hand. Shutting off the tape deck he lay down on the sofa with his arms crossed over his eyes and tried to imagine the scene playing out – his words, her reaction, how best to salvage the whole mess.

It was only when the clock finally hit 7:30 that he forced himself out of the house, locking up and walking down the block. It was only a five-minute walk to the Thursdays’, almost faster on foot than in the Jag. He went slowly down the sidewalk, feeling like a man going to meet his maker. 

Win answered the door for him, smiling gently at his apprehension and putting her hand on his arm. “It will all be alright, love. She didn’t mean it; you know that, don’t you?”

He smiled a tight, wordless smile and she pulled the door to behind him. “Fred’s in the den. I’ll fetch her down.”

After twelve years, the Thursday’s new house had come to take on the same warmth and welcome as had suffused the old one. They had a gift of making a place feel lived in, comfortable and homey without falling into shabbiness. The den’s walls were painted a cheerful blue, the perennially-open curtains overlooking the garden were a complementary navy, and the white window-trim had been newly redone earlier in the summer by Sam. It held the colour TV, two matching dove-grey velour sofas at right angles to each other, and a long case with a turntable and speakers and a shelf of albums. After the fire Morse had donated a pair of watercolour landscapes depicting the Lincolnshire downs, and they still hung in their original places. 

Morse found Thursday sitting on one of the sofas as advertised, reading a tatty book. He looked up when Morse entered and set it down on the coffee table, removing his reading glasses. “You’ll do,” he said supportively, picking up on Morse’s apprehension as easily as Win had. He didn’t offer a drink; Morse didn’t ask, instead making to sit down on the second, empty sofa. Thursday checked him before he could. “None of that now; here, with me, Morse.” Thursday’s hand sought his as he sat, large and worn. Thursday felt like a monarch overlooking his people: calm, peaceful, benevolent. With the contact some of the tension eased from Morse’s frame; Thursday still had the power to calm him as much as ever, to chase his anxieties and tension away. “It’ll be alright,” Thursday said softly, voice a low rumble. Morse allowed his eyes to slip closed for just an instant, hoping he was right.

Out in the hall, thumping footsteps preceded Win and Faith’s arrival. Morse pulled away, leaning forward to sit more casually with his hands resting on his knees. Waiting.

Faith had inherited Morse’s pale complexion; even as she came in she was blushing right to her roots, ducking her head low so that her hair fell in an auburn curtain to hide her face. She passed by Morse to sit on the far side of the free sofa, Win beside her. Only then did she look up, hair parting to reveal a freckled nose and red eyes. “I’m sorry about yesterday, for what I said – I didn’t mean it. Truly.” She gave a watery smile, eyes worried. She rubbed her nose with the cuff of an over-long sleeve, her loose shirt hanging down over her faded denim jeans. She was very much fifteen: untidy, awkward, and with a heart of glass. 

Morse smiled, folding and unfolding his hands and trying not to look like a worried constable reporting to his sergeant for the first time. He searched for the words he’d spent the day dreading: an acceptance of her apology, a demure protest, an explanation. It all sounded pathetic and tawdry in his mind, and he turned away from it. His eyes caught on the landscapes above her head, the soft green hills of his childhood. 

“When I was your age,” he began slowly, voice low and rusty, “I was miserable. So miserable it seemed to me that I would never be happy. I was wrong, of course – I just needed to find something I cared about enough to take that misery away.” He paused, looking up at her. “I never wanted you to feel so alone, so unwanted. Not for a day, not for a minute. When you were born we promised to do everything we could to bring you a better life than the one I, or any of us, had had. What we’ve said, what we’ve done – it was all to bring you the best life you could have. A life full of happiness and love, I hope.” 

Faith looked around the room at the three of them, her hair falling back to reveal a narrow face with Morse’s high cheekbones. “Why are you telling me this?” she asked carefully, brown eyes wide with anxiety.

“Because you need to know. You need to know that you mean the world to us, you always have. And that it’s been hard for us to know what best to do about that.”

She shook her head fretfully. “But why you? The three of you? You’re – who are you? To me?”

Morse took a long, slow breath, feeling hundreds of pins pressing in against his lungs. “The one who brought you into this world. Myself, and Fred.” He felt Thursday take a shift beside him, rolling his shoulders back to sit straight-backed and watchful. 

Faith’s face contorted with confusion. “But – my mother –”

Morse fisted, then carefully unfisted, his hands. His words came out in short, choppy sentences, too painful to hold onto. “There were just the two of us. Back when I was Fred’s bagman. We disturbed a lay shrine to a fertility goddess. She gave us a choice: each other, or death for the first man to step out of her circle.” He glanced at Fred, taking a deep breath. “If it had come to that, Fred would’ve stepped out first, no question. We wouldn’t either of us let the other die. So we took the alternative.” He shrugged a little apologetically. “Neither of us expected anything to come of it, but the shrine’s magic was stronger than we could have known.”

Beside him, Fred stirred. “From the moment you were born, you were all that mattered to Morse, to all of us. Your health, your happiness. He didn’t have the time or the means to take you on, so we did.” Thursday sounded calm, matter-of-fact; Morse was fighting to slow his racing heart. 

“Fred and Win are – will always be your parents. It just seemed – that you ought to know. Why I’m here, why I care,” he said, awkwardly. She was sitting silently, staring. “Faith?” he asked, quietly.

“All these years I’ve wondered, and you’ve been right here – and everyone knew it but me? Sam and Joan?” She asked heatedly, looking to Win, who nodded once. “You all kept this from me, pretended – what, that it didn’t matter? That I wouldn’t want to know?”

“I was afraid, Faith,” he said heavily, cutting off the storm of her anger.

She looked at him, thin and fragile and the whole of his heart. “Of what?”

“That you would be ashamed, angry. That you wouldn’t believe us when we told you we love you. That you couldn’t love – me.” He said, dropping the words like smooth stones into a motionless pool.

Faith stared, breathing hard. She fell back, but shrugged away Win’s reassuring hand. “You – you’ve been there in the shadows my whole life. Watching me – watching over me. You went into that fire when I was little – I’ve seen the scars. You’ve been more than a friend, more than an uncle… and I never knew why. I’ve always been afraid to ask.” She shook her head, tears in her eyes now. 

“Why?” asked Morse, gently.

She took a minute to breathe, choking back her tears. “I was afraid… afraid there was something between you and mum, and if I spoke up it would ruin everything.” 

For a moment there was only silence, all three adults carefully schooling their responses, crushing the impulse to scoff. Then Win pulled her in against her side, shushing away her tears. “There’s nothing between us, love – nothing more than friendship and gratitude.”

“I don’t know what to say,” Faith choked out, stammering. “I’ve been so stupid for so long – I could have just asked… _should_ have just asked.”

“Don’t apologize,” said Morse, tone soft but earnest. “You’ve nothing to apologize for. You owe us nothing. Fred – we – just thought you should know the truth.”

“But… you’re my father – or – or…” she shook her head, unable to find the right words. “And the two of you – all of you – kept this secret since I was born. And no one else even knows you have me?”

Morse shook his head slowly. “Just your family and Max DeBryn. There was a blood mage who knew; he died two years ago.”

She looked at him, ensconced in Win’s arms, eyes wide and uncertain. “I don’t know what to say,” she admitted.

“You don’t have to say anything – or do anything, or even feel anything. Nothing has to change. It’s just… something you deserved to know.”

She pushed her hair away from her face with a shaking hand, wiping her nose again. “But you’ve hardly told me anything – about what happened, about yourself. You never have. You have so many secrets,” she finished quietly. 

Beside him, Thursday snorted gently. “Then perhaps you’d better start spending some more time with Morse. He’s never been any hand at sharing his secrets, but he might as well start learning.” He clasped Morse’s shoulder. Faith’s eyes flitted from him back to Morse and she nodded once.

“Please. I … I think I need to. I need to know.”

Morse’s smile widened, the knot of fear and anxiety in his stomach loosening. “I’d like that.”

  
***

Morse reduced his visits to one night a week; on a further two, Faith came to see him in the evenings. Sometimes she brought her homework, or readings from school, sometimes a pie or slices of cake she and Win had baked. Mostly she just brought herself, came to talk and listen.

She was quick, curious and a good listener; calmer than Joan, more cunning than Sam. She whittled the truth out of him when she wanted it, but left him the secrets he refused to share. 

He told her his most important one very early on. After the truth about her birth, it seemed a triviality. 

“Then I could be sun-touched?” she asked, fear in her voice, when he told her. No shock, no disgust with him. But then, Thursday would never have raised her to be anything less than open-minded. And the times had changed so much since his youth, activism and awareness had opened doors that hadn’t even existed then.

“It’s possible,” he admitted, “but you’re already fifteen, and you’ve not woken. The odds are beginning to lengthen. Fred and Win have been watching; they would have told you – and me – right away if you’d shown any signs of it.”

“But you inherited it – from your parents?” she asked, relaxing a little now. Her wide brown eyes were curious, watchful. Thursday’s eyes. 

He nodded. “From my mother. We never discussed it; she died when I was twelve – before I knew I was an empath, before I was old enough for her to tell me much.”

“My grandmother,” she said, and with a little shock he realised it was true. His own family’s relation to Faith was one he hardly ever considered, other than the decision to keep her a secret from Gwen and Joyce. Joyce would have been supportive, he was sure, but she would also almost certainly have let something slip to Gwen, and he didn’t have the strength to cope with that – certainly not then, perhaps not even now. Not with her tongue so greatly loosened by the dementia that had enfolded her like a cloak. But this wasn’t about Gwen; there was no need to bring her to mind.

“What was she like?” asked Faith, curling her legs up under her on the sofa. Morse smiled and leaned back thoughtfully.

“My lasting memory is one of softness…” he began.

  
***

They sat together in his conservatory sometimes, Morse mulching out the plants and Faith sweeping up the debris and picking dead leaves off the trees. He’d never been much of a hand at gardening, but it had come with the house and he’d learned to love the sweet smell of the citris blossoms and the earthier tones of the damp soil.

“Haven’t you been lonely?” asked Faith out of the blue, several weeks into her regular visits. “Right here with me all the time, with no one knowing? With me not knowing?”

Morse took a slow, deep breath. Paused for a moment, hands half-buried in potting soil. “For you to be happy – that was all that mattered.” 

Her face reflected in the streaked glass was disbelieving. “Is that enough?”

Morse looked over his shoulder, gave a little, shy smile. “Most days it is,” he said, thinking of the pendant fitted into his palm. “I meant what I said when I told you who I was, dear heart: all I want – all I need – is for you to be happy and loved.”

“I am,” she whispered.

“Then that’s enough.”

“Not anymore. Never again. Even if nothing else has changed, I know now. You have me, now.”

  
***

“I can’t help but thinking we could have arranged things better,” sighed Win one evening, while Morse was helping her in the warm little kitchen smelling of roast beef and onions. He was cutting potatoes, watching Fred and Faith pick late beans in the garden.

“How do you mean?”

Win glanced at him, then out the window at the two figures beyond, her expression bittersweet. “We should have kept you in our lives more. For her, and for Fred. He cares for you – only more, as the years have gone on. I think he sees you in her; I do too,” she smiled a little sadly, “but it’s not the same.”

Morse put down the knife, turned. He took in her expression and met it with earnestness. “Win, there’s nothing between us – there never has been.”

Win crossed her arms slowly over her stomach, stepping back to rest against the counter. Her eyes were dark – serene, but watchful. “I know, love. But perhaps there could have been. I’ve had Fred to myself for forty years; I could have learned to share him.”

“I’d never have asked you that – and neither would he. You know that. It’s just fondness, Win.”

“You know how he feels – must have known for years, now. You deserve –” 

“I deserve your trust,” he said, gently, reaching out to take her hands. Felt a bitter mix of guilt, fear and sadness. “And his, too. I’ve never asked for more – never needed it.”

“But what have you wanted, Morse?”

He turned to look out the window again, at Fred pushing aside thick greenery to let Faith pick long green pods off the vines. They were smiling, chatting easily as they worked to fill the bowl in his hands. Himself and Thursday? There had been times – many, over the years – when he had thought there might be more, wanted more. But never enough to risk what he had already. It was the road untaken, always would be.

“A family,” he said, quietly, pulling her into a gentle embrace. She sighed and rested her head gently on his shoulder. “And that’s what I found.”

  
***

At the end of September when night and day were the same length, at Thursday’s suggestion the two of them drove out to the standing stones. The forest’s leaves were shades of burning fire, blazing merrily as the wind shuffled them to and fro. The grass was no longer new and springy but falling under its own weight, trampled by harsh rains. The buttercups and clover were gone, and in their place stood dandelion stalks, waving their bald heads back and forth in the breeze.

They walked up together to the edge of the stones; as ever the monoliths stood tall and barren, the circle empty. They neither of them crossed it, but Morse stepped forward and pressed his hand to the stone. He half-expected there to be some faint vibration there, some sign of life, of strength and power. There was nothing: the stone was cold and dead under his palm.

“All these years I’ve wondered what would happen when we told her. If she would reject me – maybe even all of us, God forbid. It’s been the one abiding worry I’ve never shaken. And now… when I look back on how miserable and desperate I was, it seems like a dream,” he said, more to the stone than Thursday.

“You’ve always thought far too much. Half your troubles would disappear if you just eased up on your poor brains,” replied Thursday good-naturedly, coming to stand beside him. He glanced at Morse’s hand, his long outstretched fingers “What do you feel?”

Morse shook his head. “Nothing. It’s dead, or asleep. I suppose there’s nothing to celebrate now.”

“Autumn brings the harvest, Morse – the ripening of everything grown in the year, spring’s bounty celebrated.” He dropped a hand on Morse’s shoulder; Morse closed his eyes, leant forward to rest his forehead against the cool stone. 

“I still think about it, sometimes,” he said softly. “What happened here… you. Do you regret that we never – that there was never anything further between us?” He rolled his head to face Thursday, watching him with tired eyes. 

“I regret that you never had the love you ought to’ve,” said Thursday, slowly. “That you brought Faith into our lives, that we had so much and you so little. I wish I knew how to change that, Morse. That I knew how to be more to you.”

Morse sighed. “I don’t need more.”

“No. But you want it.”

Morse stared, then shrugged stiffly. “If wishes were horses…”

Thursday gripped his shoulder, then slowly moved his hand to cup Morse’s cheek. He could feel the bitter disappointment there, and the tenderness. The sensation burned like acid, but he wouldn’t have pushed Thursday away for the world. “I’m sorry, Morse. I’m too old – I think we both are – too set in our ways, too used to things as they are. This is all I can offer.”

Morse rested his hand over Thursday’s and smiled softly. “It’s enough.

  
***

For Morse’s 45’s birthday, Faith (with the support of her parents) bought him two tickets to the opera – Madame Butterfly, at the Royal Opera House. “I thought,” she said, rather shyly, “I could go with you. Unless there’s someone else…”

“Of course there isn’t,” he said, pulling into a hug. “Thank you; it was my favourite when I was your age, and for a long while after – it still holds a special place in my heart.”

Faith smiled. “Dad told me. He said it was the first time you heard something truly beautiful.”

Morse blinked, surprised Thursday would remember. “He was right,” he said, to cover his surprise. In his hand, the tickets felt faintly warm with exuberance and excitement.

  
***

The opera was superb; he had heard Miriam Gauci lauded on the continent but had not heard her perform in person. She would never eclipse Rosalind Calloway in his heart, and even when he tried for impassivity he felt she still didn’t quite live up to his legend, but she was excellent all the same. Faith was taken more with the music than the story – “It’s not very realistic, is it?” she asked, on the drive back to Oxford.

He turned cautiously onto the motorway; there was a frost on the ground, the roads slick beneath the Jag’s tires. Its heaters were blowing on full to warm the roomy cab. “I’m afraid opera sacrifices realism to grand emotion. Although doubtless it was more believable in the Victorian era.”

“I suppose what you feel is more important than what you see,” agreed Faith. “I did _feel_ for her; I just thought it was rather silly at the same time.”

Morse smiled wryly at the plainness of her answer. “Perhaps next time we should see a comedy, you might enjoy that more. I believe –”

Up ahead a car was trying to merge; it hit a patch of black ice and swerved sideways. Morse swore, braking harshly and wrenching the wheel around so hard his shoulder stung. Behind him horns blared and headlamps dazzled his eyes. Then the Jag slammed into something with a hideous squeal of rending metal and he was thrown forward into the wheel. 

For a moment the world turned to static, his mind too dazed to interpret the swirl of lights and noises. As his focus returned he found himself lying against the wheel, head at an awkward, painful angle. Across from him, slumped in her seat with blood dripping from her forehead, was Faith.

He gave a cry and reached out; as he stretched a lightning-bolt of pain sliced into him, his whole body convulsing with agony. His hand dropped, his voice draining away into a choked gurgle, and he fell into darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspector Morse is clearly not interested in exploring Morse's home, but we do see in at least one episode that he has a little conservatory attached to the sitting room. Now try to imagine Morse maintaining that.


	7. CHAPTER 6

He woke slowly, like a swimmer rising towards the surface of a black lake. He was somewhere cramped, dark, musty. The room was hot, air warm against his skin, and he frowned. He never kept the house this warm.

“Morse?”

Morse blinked, vision clearing. Thursday was beside him, watching anxiously. Somehow though he looked younger – too much younger. As though he had lost fifteen or twenty years, was once again in his prime as he had been when Morse had first known him. Morse stared up at him in confusion, the angle dizzying.

“Fred?”

A frown flashed across Thursday’s face, but he nodded. “That’s right, lad. How d’you feel?” His voice was soft, careful, but tinged with real concern.

“I –” his memory caught up with him very abruptly, slamming into him so unexpectedly he shook. Then he sat up, grabbing Thursday’s arm. “Faith,” he growled, looking around. This was no hospital, although there was something familiar about the tiny space. “Where is she? Is she alright?”

“Morse,” said Thursday, very slowly, face going blank. “You’ve been ill. Dreaming.”

“Never mind me,” he snapped, making to throw off his blankets. Thursday stopped him, pushed him back down firmly. “Where is she? What’s happened to her?”

“You were dreaming, Morse – the Djinn Fever. You’ve been ill a week.” And then, a shade more softly: “I don’t know any Faith, and I doubt you do either.”

A chill ran through him, an icy wind cutting to the bone. He pulled away, jaw working. “What is this? What are you saying?”

“You’ve been ill, delirious, for days Morse. You –” 

“I’ve never had Djinn Fever,” he snapped, shoving away Thursday’s restraining hand. “I need to see her – get _off!_ ”

“Morse, there’s no one to see. You’ve been here in your flat for the past week. Just me, DeBryn and Mrs Thursday.”

Morse had tumbled out of the bed before Thursday could stop him, breaking towards the door. He recognized the room now, one of half a dozen bed-sits he’d had in his youth. Fear was beginning to claw at him, sinking its teeth into the soft marrow of his bones. But anger still outed. 

“Why are you doing this? She’s your daughter!” he shouted, staggering away and holding up a shaking arm to keep Thursday back. He felt week and dizzy, vision blurring at the edges. 

“Morse, _Joan_ is my daughter,” replied Thursday, carefully. “You remember Joan, she –”

“Of course I do,” he spat, aggravated. “Faith is ours. Yours and mine. Don’t you remember?” He hitched up his pyjama trouser leg with one hand, baring his left leg. Thursday’s face had gone wooden, his eyes flashing down and back again without reaction.

Morse looked down and saw pale, unmarked skin and lean muscle. No smooth, darkened burn scar, no sagging flesh. 

He stumbled back against the wall, world spinning. Thursday advanced and he tried to wave him off. This was a nightmare – or worse, something blood-touched. A dire weaver, a wight burrowing into his brain. The chorus of fear grew to a crescendo, drowning out the rest of his emotions. “Stay away,” he begged, voice shaking. “Keep away from me.”

Behind him the door opened and Morse turned to see a familiar figure step through. Familiar but changed too: Max DeBryn, younger, fitter. 

“DeBryn, he –” started Thursday; Morse pressed back against the wall, feeling as though the world were melting around him. He groaned sickly, pressing his palms against the wall, trying to hold on. 

“Easy lad, you’re alright. It’s just the fever.”

Morse tried to sidle away, felt his legs give way under him, and tumbled down into unconsciousness.

  
***

For an immeasurable time Morse floated through a grey, muffled world. Everything was quiet and soft-edged, like a colourless, tasteless dream. His head swam when he moved, senses blurred and dull as though smothered with a down pillow. Every now and then pockets of reality sharpened into focus: meals, the cool touch of a flannel, being helped to the toilet. Staring at his glassy-eyed reflection, at the wrongness of his fiery hair and lean face.

In one of his lucid moments he saw Thursday looking down at him, face drawn and haggard as it had been in Faith’s first six months.

“What are you doing to me?” he whispered, saw a muscle in Thursday’s jaw jump.

“You’re delirious, Morse. Best you sleep through the worst of it; you’ll forget it all soon enough.”

“Forget? Forget what?” He tried to grasp Thursday’s sleeve; his hand fell through empty air, eyes improperly focused. Thursday took hold of his wrist, fingers tight over the loose pyjama flannel.

“The fever dreams. They’ll all fade soon enough, lad.”

“What are you _saying?_ ” his voice broke and he turned away. “It’s this that’s the dream – why are you here? What _is_ this?” he muttered to himself, words slurred. Thursday’s voice rumbled out an answer, but he was already slipping away.

  
***

When he woke next the room was dark and silent. A single lamp on the far side of the opaque partition shone dully, painting the world in long grey shadows. There was a dark form sitting at his side, long hair tumbling down to blend into the coal-black curve of the shoulders. _Her_ shoulders.

“Faith?” He reached out, tentative in the darkness.

A soft, warm hand and took his, filling him with kindness and compassion.

“Shh. Shh love.” A second hand stretched out and stroked his forehand, all cool tenderness. His eyes flickered closed, head dropping back against the pillow.

A dream. This was all a dream. Surely.

  
***

Morse woke feeling as though he had been wrestling in his sleep. His limbs were heavy and aching, throat rough. He blinked open sleep-crusted eyes and found the sun shining in, the sky outside the soft forget-me-not blue of winter. Looking down he found his blankets had been pulled straight, tucked carefully down into the mattress by a competent hand – whose, he wasn’t sure.

He was still in his old flat, nearly identical to the one in his now-rusty memory. The bed was as uncomfortable as he remembered, the room as tiny. Beside him, Thursday was sitting on a rickety old chair – one of a pair, he recalled.

It was Inspector Thursday – not Fred. He still had the bulk and strength he had had in his prime, dark hair only beginning to grey.

“Morning, lad. Mrs Thursday said you had a rough night of it. How’s it with you today?”

A dream, they had told him before. Djinn fever. It explained things. This truly was a dream, this young Thursday a figment. Morse closed his half-open mouth and turned his head away.

“Morse? What’s the matter? Morse?” He ignored the entreaties, as well as Thursday’s attempt to shake him into responsiveness. Eventually he gave up and picked up the paper he’d been reading, began reading aloud to Morse. Morse closed his eyes and curled up under the carefully-straightened blankets with his back to Thursday, fisted hands held close up by his chest. 

He would wake soon. He would.

  
***

The day passed slowly. Thursday seemed eventually to realise he wasn’t interested in interaction, and continued his reading in silence – a book now, Morse didn’t turn over to ascertain which. He was too exhausted to read himself, or to leave his sick-bed for anything other than the toilet, leaving him little in the way of distractions. 

He refused breakfast, staring silently at the wall until Thursday took it away. But when he tried to refuse his lunch as well – chicken broth and sliced white bread – Thursday sat down with it and took up the spoon. “You can eat it yourself, Morse, or I can feed it to you. Which is it to be?” he asked grimly, mouth set in a very firm line. His tone made it clear he wouldn’t back down if pressed, and Morse sulkily took the mug of broth, blowing on it until it cooled and then drinking it down. Thursday watched him like a hawk until he had finished both it and the bread.

Morse lay down again before Thursday could press him to undertake more, turning over to face the wall and hoping sleep would come soon.

  
***

It was dark outside when he woke; the lights were on in the flat, painting it in yellowish tones. A conversation was going on on the other side of the room, two low male voices. Thursday and DeBryn he identified without turning. 

“ – don’t know what to do with him,” growled Thursday.

“He’ll come out of it soon enough; the memories fade quickly once patients wake.”

“Even ones as stubborn as him?”

“I’m afraid so,” concluded DeBryn, in a sombre tone.

“Why afraid?”

“Because, inspector, he has made it quite clear which reality he prefers. For myself, I’m pleased he’s woken. But I’m not sure I should be pleased for him.” 

Thursday muttered something too low to hear; a curse, Morse thought. Then there was the sound of the door opening and closing, DeBryn slotting the bolt home. He walked quietly across the flat and sat down heavily in the chair beside the bed.

“Morse?”

Morse, staring at the wall, didn’t answer. DeBryn leaned over and pressed the back of his hand to Morse’s forehead; Morse flinched away.

There was a moment of silence, and then a rustle of cloth as DeBryn withdrew. “Morse, I don’t know what you think about all this. I doubt, somehow, that you believe much of what you’ve been told. Most patients take days to return to their former selves once the fever’s broken, and you’re still feverish. What you choose to believe, then, is up to you. But if you want to keep a record of your thoughts, you’re welcome to.” He reached over and deposited beside Morse a black notebook and pen. 

“I’ll be making dinner,” said DeBryn, standing and walking off.

Morse stared at the leather-sided book; it looked expensive, sturdy. He opened it and found the pages lined, the spine ring-bound. He flipped through a few pages, paper cool and crisp against his fingers. He pulled himself up onto his elbow and uncapped the pen, making a few squint loops and scribbles; the ink was thick, black and free-flowing. He flipped to the second page, thought for a while, and then put the tip of the pen to the paper.

_Spring Equinox, 1967  
Fred Thursday and I were called out to the standing stones by Marley wood on a report of minors intending to participate in illegal activities. _

_On arriving we found no trace of the youths, but passed into the stone circle, taking it to be long-since abandoned. We were wrong._

  
***

He wrote until DeBryn brought him his dinner, detailing his meeting with Porter and DeBryn and the confirmation of the pregnancy. He ate up the beef tea and mashed potatoes without protest after seeing the steely glint of DeBryn’s eye. After dinner while DeBryn did the washing up he sat up in bed, book propped up on his thighs, and continued on. 

_My distress seems so much like a dream now, but it was incredibly real to me then. The horror and shame I felt at the second secret I was carrying – so much more disastrous than the first. I kept it until it started to scald me from the inside out, until Fred called me out on my behaviour. Even then I couldn’t tell him; I ran from him like a guilty child, and even when he found me by the Thames he couldn’t pull it from me. It was DeBryn who told him in the end; I staggered home on my own and tried not to imagine his reaction, his disgust. But when he came to find me he was only afraid for my wellbeing, and angry I had taken so much on myself for so long. I should never have doubted him._

It had been here, come to think of it, that he had run. And here that Thursday had found him, had tried to convince him everything would be alright in a time when it seemed so clear that nothing could be. Morse sighed, and continued on. Recorded Porter’s refusal of assistance, his break-down in the Thursday’s bathroom, the three long months of his confinement, DeBryn’s kindness and Thursday’s tenderness. He ended, his head beginning to nod, with the child’s birth.

_I really believed myself to be dying – ruptured and bleeding to death. And yet my last thought wasn’t for myself, or Thursday and DeBryn hovering desperately over me, but for the little infant warm and damp on my chest. The child I would never know – or so I thought._

He put down the pen and paper, and went to sleep.

  
***

Sun was shining in through the window in a thick, golden stream. Outside birds were singing short cheerful greetings to one another. Morse sat up in bed feeling clear-headed for the first time in a long time. His hair felt damp and he reached up to find it in a tangled mess, the thicker clumps still cool with sweat. There was a fragrant, delicious scent of tea in the air, and he turned over to find Win Thursday sitting beside him, two porcelain cups on his bedside table.

“Good morning, love. Doctor DeBryn said your fever broke in the night; are you feeling better?”

He stared back blankly at her. This wasn’t the Win he knew either – not the bird-boned lady with grey-white hair and smile lines worn into her cheeks – it was Mrs Thursday, dark-haired in a tweed skirt and knit cardigan, looking bright-eyed and sharp. 

“The doctor mentioned you weren’t up to speaking. But let me know if you need anything. I’ll just put some toast on – he thought you could try that today, with some butter.” She stood up and trod purposefully towards the kitchen. Morse saw his book was sitting on the corner of the table closest to him, still on a crooked angle as he had left it the night before. He rested his hand on its cool surface for a moment before taking it up and beginning where he had left off.

_Faith. It’s what we – I – called her, when they released me from the hospital. I was hopeless at first, I’m sure – incapable of the simplest chores and still shaky from the ordeal of her birth. But I regained myself quickly, and Win and Joan kept me up to task as far as Faith was concerned. I can’t say that I have any memory of ever having been happier than I was those long winter evenings sitting on the sofa with her in my arms._

  
***

His memories of the intervening time were uneven; at times he remembered the tiniest look and smile of Faith’s, the way a case caught him suddenly in the gut when it turned out that a child was involved, a detailed recollection of gift he had bought her for some birthday. But he also missed years altogether, with little standing out in them as significant or even memorable. 

By the end of the day he had managed up to Faith’s fifteenth birthday, wrist now sore and eyes drooping shut. He put the book down and drank some of the juice Mrs Thursday brought him before closing his eyes and letting sleep take him again.

  
***

The lights were all on again when he woke, dry-mouthed and groggy. The curtains were closed, bathing the room in the lamps’ warm glow. He looked up and saw Thursday sitting beside him, reading a book.

Reading _his_ book. 

Morse sat up with a cry, and Thursday startled and drew back, book snapping shut. He stared at Morse for a moment, face stamped with wide-eyed surprise. Then, slowly, a wave of sadness washed over his features. “Is this true, lad?”

Morse flushed high, anger rising. “What about it?” he demanded, snatching it back. In his anger his determination to ignore the spectres in this dream fell by the wayside, forgotten.

“All of it – years and years of another life, a career, a family?”

“Of course it’s true,” snapped Morse, running his fingers over the edge of the pages, the cover. Thursday’s emotions were faint, but there all the same: heartache, pity, sorrow. “It wasn’t meant for you.”

“Even after all that?” asked Thursday, eyes on the book.

“You’re not him. I know, now.” 

“I _am_ sorry, Morse.”

“It doesn’t matter,” he said stonily, turning away. None of it did. He would wake up soon from this dream – soon.

  
***

He tucked the book away, unfinished, under his pillow that evening. His dreams were grey and foggy, full of unhappiness and loneliness, but he didn’t remember them when he woke in the morning. DeBryn was with him now, reading the contents of a manila file and occasionally jotting notes into the margins. 

Morse found the black book and read through it. The words seemed somehow distant from him, for all that he’d written them only yesterday. His memory of it was fuzzy, as though seen through a fogged window. 

He tried to keep writing but it was harder to find the words, to pick out the memories he wanted to describe. 

_We kept the secret of Faith’s parentage all those years, sure the others in her life could never accept it, and afraid that neither would she. Kept it until I tried to exert authority and she put her foot down, pointing out that I was no one and nothing to her. Fred and Win wouldn’t let that stand, wouldn’t let her go on thinking so even if she apologized._

_Going into that room to tell her was one of the most difficult things I’ve ever done._

He finished the scene at the Thursday’s before lunch and went on after about the second trip to the standing stones, his birthday, Madame Butterfly.

It took him the whole day just to do that one year, writing in stops and starts. Win Thursday relieved DeBryn in the afternoon, bringing with her a thick stew in a pot smelling deliciously of roasting meat and potatoes and rosemary. By the time he went to bed that evening he had finished writing the interrupted drive back to Oxford.

_The road was icy, surface slick under the jag’s tyres. I thought the motorway would be safer, warmed by all the exhaust, but I didn’t take into account the onramps._

He wrote the final sentences in a near-frenzy, a tenth of the emotion he had felt then returning to him as the pen scratched across the page. He wrote almost without conscious thought, pouring out his desperation, and determination.

And then, finally finished, he stopped to stare in puzzlement at the half-filled page. At the raw, unsubstantiated belief that everything would be alright in the face of all odds – that he would find her. 

It sounded like madness, like the deafness of a man determined not to believe what was in front of him.

Sounded, he realised very suddenly, like Djinn Fever. 

He took a breath, and heard it catch tight and gasping in his throat. The second was even tighter, his air passage closing up. The book fell from his fingers as he bent over, struggling to draw breath. 

“Morse? _Morse!_ ” Win Thursday crouched beside him, rubbing his back hard. “Breathe, Morse. Breathe, you’re alright.”

There were tears in his eyes, he realised in shock as he looked up at her; they were rolling down his cheeks to run along his jaw and drip down onto the covers. He coughed, breaking the vacuum in his throat, and tried to catch his breath. 

“It has to be real – please – it has to be,” he begged, hearing the uncertainty, the desperation in his voice. Mrs Thursday stiffened but kept on rubbing his back. 

“It will all be alright, love. I promise.”

He shook his head. “How can it be?”

“Because you’ll remember yourself. And you’ll come back to us,” she said with kindness, wrapping her arms around him. “We’ve missed you, love.”

He buried his face against her shoulder and waited for the tears to stop.

  
***

Morse slept a long time that night; the bedside clock read 10 when he finally woke, lying tired and worn-out without raising his head. 

Inspector Thursday was sitting beside him, smoking his pipe. Morse stared up at him wonderingly. He looked tired and empty, as though he’d been walking for miles and miles and had only just sat down. 

“Sir?” he said quietly, found his voice gruff. “What’s –” he frowned, catching sight of the black book on the bedside table. _His_ book, his memory prompted, but he wasn’t sure why it should be. “I’ve been ill?” he asked, uncertainly. Thursday’s face cleared.

“That’s right, lad. Djinn Fever.”

Morse passed a hand over his forehead; it felt cool and smooth. He frowned. “I… don’t remember… I’ve been here a long time?”

“Nearly a fortnight. DeBryn and Mrs Thursday have been helping with the nursing.”

He remembered them, although they were as insubstantial as shades in his memory. Everything was confused, his thoughts felt like shadows disappearing under a spotlight. He rubbed at the bridge of his nose. “I – Mrs Thursday? She…” 

“I had to bring her in, lad; DeBryn and I couldn’t manage alone. I took as much time as I could, but what with a quarter of the force missing shifts piecemeal here and there was only so much I could do. Win’s safe – you can trust her with your secret.”

He nodded slowly. It stung, having the right, the ownership of that secret taken from him. But he could understand; illness could always took things out of his hands. Better her than…

“The station?” he asked suddenly, fear pinching at his heart.

“I’ve put out that you’re taking some time to look after a sick relative. It’s unfortunate you’re down so soon after getting back, but there’s no help for it. I’m afraid you won’t have many holidays left in the year.”

The fear melted away and Morse shrugged, a stiff roll of his shoulders. He hardly ever made use of the time anyway. He put that thought behind him; it wasn’t one he could help.

“I was dreaming,” he said, sitting up. Thursday leaned forward and helped him, hand steady as he settled Morse up against his pillows. He offered him a glass of juice; Morse drank it down thirstily, sweet liquid making his mouth sting. 

“Never mind about that now. What matters is that you’re here.”

“There was a girl… I – I don’t think I’m supposed to forget,” he said, uncertainly. Glanced down at the notebook on the table; he could remember writing in it, scrawling hour after hour. Writing what?

“Everyone forgets, Morse. Sometimes it’s a gift, sometimes a curse. But everyone forgets.” Thursday’s tone was one of resignation, but Morse could hear the tiredness beneath it – it sounded quite like sorrow. “Do you want some breakfast?”

Morse glanced across at the kitchen, and nodded shyly. “Please.”

Thursday rose and, reaching out, took up the black book and pocketed it on his way to the kitchen. 

By the afternoon, Morse had almost forgotten it had ever existed.

  
***

Morse ran through the final days of February resting, mostly alone now except for short visits by the Thursdays or DeBryn to help with meals. He would go back to regular duties when he returned to the station – no excuse for desk-work – and DeBryn wouldn’t clear him until he was convinced Morse was fit to return to a full load.

He went back on the first of March – a blustery day full of sun-showers and rainbows. Everything was as though he’d never been gone, even Thursday, treating him with his usual even-handedness. But he saw the inspector watching him from time to time out of the corner of his eye; he took it for concern.

He’d been back a couple of days, driving Thursday to and from the station as usual before the inspector paused one evening while getting out of the Jag. “This is yours,” he said, producing a small black notebook and handing it to Morse. “Oughtn’t to’ve kept it by rights, but I didn’t want you to have a relapse. And somehow, I’ve grown almost fond of it.”

Morse took the book in puzzlement, flipping through it to see pages and pages covered with his lilting scrawl. “This is…?”

“You wrote it. While you were ill. You won’t remember now. But then… we thought it might kill you to forget,” he said, honestly. “Give it a read, if you like. Or burn it and forget – it’s up to you.” 

Something in the intensity of his stare and tone frightened Morse. Some people dreamed so deeply they never woke, preferring to reject reality in favour of the fever dreams. The idea that he had nearly been one…

He tucked the book away into his pocket, wished Thursday goodnight, and drove back to the station. He went home soon afterwards, notebook burning a hole in his pocket.

  
***

After he finished his dinner that night he sat at the table, a glass of scotch in his hand and Elgar on the turntable, staring at the book. Whatever dream he had been living had been too sweet for him to willingly let it go – a life of prosperity? Acceptance? Love? What world could he have imagined that so surpassed this one. He had to know.

He opened the book and started reading:

_Spring Equinox, 1967._

  
***

It took him the better part of an hour to read it; he turned page after page entranced, drink, dishes, record forgotten. 

He came to the end before he was ready, the writing growing fainter and sparser in the last few pages. It ended on an unhappy, bitter note. 

_She was there beside me, only feet away, and still I couldn’t reach her – I **couldn’t reach her**. I have to find her. I **will** find her._

_Tienti la tua paura,  
io con sicura fede l’aspetto._

Morse traced his fingers over the final inscription. The last lines from _Un Bel Di: Hold back your fears, With secure faith I will wait for her._

Him, originally, but he could only take the intention as feminine rather than masculine. Her. Faith.

He curled his hand in his hair, pulling it taut until the roots ached. He ought never to have chosen such an ill-fated aria. Never to have tied his unbreakable resolve and dedication to Butterfly’s. 

He staggered to his feet, half-blinded by a sudden rush of loneliness and emptiness, went to the phone and picked up the receiver. He stood there for several minutes, hand ready to dial Thursday’s number. Ask him what had happened to him, what this was. But eventually he put down the receiver with a cold click; he knew the answer. 

It was an illness, a dream. Nothing more.

He went to bed early that night, taking the book with him to his bedside table like a protective charm, a warden against all the betrayals he felt calling to him from the self he had left behind in the fever dreams, from the child who never was.

  
***

He found himself reading the book over and over as the days went by, trying to relive the memories he couldn’t remember through his words. To imagine the warm weight of the child he had borne, her smile, her voice. The warmth of Thursday’s touch leant in tenderness rather than support. 

All the things he had never realised he wanted, and now as the days went by was beginning to crave to the exclusion of nearly all else. 

He tried to put the book out of his mind at work, tried to concentrate on the day-to-day mundanities of case work. But every time he caught Thursday looking at him, he couldn’t help but wonder if he regretted the world that had never been, the life the two of them had only had in Morse’s fevered mind.

  
***

The Equinox came with much fanfare from the radio and papers, full of tips on safety, tradition, romance. The calls started coming in around dawn and didn’t slack, Cowley station slowly draining of resources. 

Against all sanity and reason, Morse waited for a call out to Marley woods. Waited, and waited. Calls came for Cowley, North Oxford, the Deer Park. He fielded them all to the few remaining officers adroitly, while outside the sun rode slowly across the sky. 

Finally, when the day was nearly done he stood and stretched, stiff from an entire day of waiting. The office was almost entirely empty, even Jakes having taken a call out. He walked slowly to Thursday’s door, propped half-open, and looked in. Thursday glanced up, pen coming to a stop on its page. Morse felt his breath catch in his throat at the shadowed look Thursday gave him.

“Any calls, Morse?” asked Thursday, gruffly.

“No, sir,” he said, honestly, resting his weight against the doorframe. On the wall to one side the clock was ticking quietly, counting off the passing seconds. Outside the sun had caught on some puddles left over in the motor pool from yesterday’s rain, was filling them with golden light. He licked his lips slowly, caught sight of Thursday watching him and fought to keep from reddening.

“But… I have a feeling about Marley wood. Just… just a hunch, sir,” he finished, so quiet his voice nearly cut out. 

Across the room, Thursday looked at him with dark eyes, running once searchingly over his form. Then he pushed his chair out and stood. “Then we’d best run out there. See what’s to be seen. Together,” he said, fetching down his hat. 

Morse’s heart was thrumming in his chest, the whole of him filling with excited warmth at the words. “Thank you, sir,” he said.

“Make that Fred, lad. Just for the moment.”

END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Morse is listening to Elgar's cello concerto.


End file.
